


Fix You

by thegraytigress



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Established Relationship, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 05:42:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 73,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5900494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The awful script, the play by play and scene by scene…  Tony isn't going to let it happen this time.  He isn't going to let Steve leave again.  He can fix this.  They can talk and not fight.  He'll have to find a way to make that happen because this has to stop.  It has to.</p><p>He has to make Steve better again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** _Iron Man_ , _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_ , _The Avengers_ , and _Captain America: Civil War_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.
> 
>  **RATING:** M (for language, adult situations, violence)
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** So... this is Stony. Steve/Tony. Together in a romantic relationship. I've gotten numerous requests for months to write Stony and/or Stucky, and here we are. I've been dancing around Stony in so many stories for so long, I thought it was time to actually go there.
> 
> I had intended for this to be a one-shot, but it kinda sorta sprouted its own plot in my head. Lots of angst, hurt/comfort, Steve whump, and Steve and Tony struggling together through some tough, emotional stuff. Extra special thanks to [Winterstar](http://http://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/pseuds/Winterstar) for agreeing to beta this story! I'm so honored. If you haven't read her stuff, please do :-). Also thanks to itstheclimb17 for so many kind words and support. For all the people out there who have asked me repeatedly for a long time to write slash, this is for you.

_“Lights will guide you home,_  
_And ignite your bones,_  
_And I will try to fix you.”_  
– Coldplay, “Fix You”

 

“Sir?”

“What?”

“Captain Rogers is here.”

Tony looked up from his workbench, soldering iron stopping against the joint on which he was working as surprise rushed over him.  And it _really_ rushed over him, sucking reality away for a seemingly infinite second or two.  A second or two was all it took to completely ruin the circuit board.  “Goddamn it.  Fucking piece of…  JARVIS, where is he?”

“He is down in the lobby.  He wishes to see you, but I thought I would ask you before taking the liberty of directing him to your workshop.”  That made sense, Tony supposed, given that his workshop was something of his inner sanctum.  And, of course, given how things had been between he and Steve last time.  Not stellar was something of an understatement.  They’d practically come to blows after a particularly harsh argument, the same damn argument they always had in one form or another since SHIELD had gone down.  Tony had tried not to think about Steve since then, since he’d spewed the last hurtful bullshit about Tony not being able to understand and left.  Yeah, he’d tried and failed miserably.  And it was impossible to deny how much harder his heart was beating now, beating in excitement and rekindled worry and so many other things he’d been trying equally hard not to acknowledge.  He was failing at that about as spectacularly.  He could hardly think for the relief thick in his veins, for the desperation clinging to his thoughts, for frantic _need_ that caused him nearly to fall off his stool as he clambered to his feet.  One pounding affirmation was all that seemed to be left of coherent thought.  Steve was back.  Steve was there.

_Steve’s here._

His hands actually shook as he secured the soldering iron in its holder and killed the power to it.  “N-no.  No, J.  Send him up to the penthouse.”  Christ, did that seem ridiculously forward and inappropriate?  He didn’t mean for it to be.  Not entirely, anyway.  No, no.  If this was anything like the last – _God, how many has it been?_ – times Steve had come to him, he’d need a shower.  And food.  And sleep.  And…  “Did we restock the first aid kit up there?”

“No, sir.  I suggest you stop at the infirmary.  He…”  JARVIS actually hesitated.  _JARVIS_ , who never failed to tell him exactly like it was, who took no bullshit (especially from him) and gave none in return.  “…looks to be in a bad way.”

 _What the fuck does that mean?_   Tony didn’t bother asking, even though his stomach twisted up in equal parts fear and worry.  _This is bullshit._   “DUM-E, clean this up.  Now.”  He hadn’t meant to bark quite so roughly, but it came out mean all the same.  DUM-E’s arm turned to him with a whine, and Tony immediately regretted it.  DUM-E had a thing for Steve, Steve who once upon a time (not so long ago) had sat with him and sketched him and Tony and all sorts of things from around the workshop to DUM-E’s enthusiastic approval, and Tony was finding it harder and harder to be the uncaring, egotistical ass he’d once been before New York.  Therefore, despite how he was aching to run before Steve up and vanished (which couldn’t happen, right?), he stopped to give the robot a little pat and compassionate glance.  “It’ll be okay.”  He didn’t know who he was promising more, himself or DUM-E.  It didn’t matter.

He moved fast.  JARVIS took him to the infirmary, which was dark and empty.  The lights flickered on as he grabbed an empty supply case.  From the cabinets he took bandages of every shape and size, antiseptic (it didn’t matter with Steve, but with Steve he never spared anything), hospital grade tape, suture kits and splinting kits, basically anything he thought he might need.  He even took painkillers and antibiotics (the former for him most likely when this turned into an inevitable and unending headache and the latter, well, again just because).  With his haul secure in his hands, he headed up to the penthouse.

Steve was there waiting for him.

He looked… _like hell._   Worse than every other time, and Tony had thought those times had been pretty damn bad.  It wasn’t just that he was filthy, which he was.  He was wearing a navy blue jacket that was covered in mud splatters and streaks, some wetter than others.  The dirty mess continued down dark blue jeans that looked too worn and tortured.  Under the coat there was a heather gray t-shirt that was wrinkled, splattered, and stained.  Simply put, he was like a man who’d been on the run way too long.  That wasn’t what was most disturbing, however.  It was the way he _looked._   It was the pallor of his unshaven, bruised face.  It was his hunched shoulders like it hurt too much to stand up straight.  It was the tension in the lines of his body, the pain and grief in his eyes and the bags beneath them, the unguarded anguish.  Every part of him seemed raw, like a pulsing nerve, like an angry, bleeding vein.  And _that_ was _so much_ worse than it had been.

Tony couldn’t get over it.  Just seeing him like this, reduced to this, to a state he’d supposed he’d silently feared but never really thought _could_ happen…  “Jesus, you look like shit.”

Steve’s face tightened into a frown.  He had his shield and a black backpack slung over his shoulder, and he hefted them higher with his right hand.  “I’ll go.”

Even his voice sounded wrong, hoarse and a deeper timbre than normal, a mere shadow of its customary strength.  “No,” Tony gasped quickly because _that couldn’t happen._   Not after Steve had been gone for more than six weeks this time, gone with no one really knowing where he’d been.  Sam Wilson and he had parted ways a couple weeks back after their latest raid of some HYDRA hellhole in Europe.  Wilson had returned to the States.  According to him, Steve had promised to follow after checking just a couple more leads (he _always_ had just a couple more leads), but aside from a few calls shortly thereafter, he had dropped off the radar.  Everyone had been worried, even more than normal.  Wilson.  Romanoff and Barton.  _No one_ had any idea where Steve had gone, and the days had slipped away, painful second by second.  Tony had taken to some somewhat illegal activities to try and track Steve down, including hacking some foreign intelligence agencies and assigning JARVIS the tedious task of continually monitoring borders all through Europe.  He’d also kept a diligent eye on the CIA, on Interpol, on MI6, on the Russians and Germans and French, on the world at large for news of HYDRA plots or Winter Soldier sightings.  There’d been none.  No trail.  No clues.  _Nothing._

But now Steve was here.  He’d come back.  There was no way Tony could just _let him go._   “No.  No, it’s alright.”

Steve’s expression was oddly unreadable.  There’d been a time not so long ago where he’d never had trouble figuring the other man out.  In the beginning, it had really pissed him off.  Steve had seemed about as vapid and uninteresting as Tony had always assumed he’d be.  Of course, he’d harbored no shortage of resentment for Captain America thanks to the asshole his father had been.  Howard Stark had always been pining over his lost friend, searching for Cap to the detriment of his family.  What was worse was how he’d set the perfection of Captain America as an unachievable goal to Tony as a child.  The insecurity and the hatred spawned from that had persisted well beyond those formative years, and when he’d finally (and inexplicably) had the occasion to meet Steve, he’d come into the moment with no interest in making any sort of team (let alone friendship) work.  He’d had his preconceptions, and damn if he hadn’t wanted to stick to them as immature as that was.  So he had.  Rogers was all brawn, no brains.  Too stupid to do anything other than march to the government’s drum, to follow orders like a goddamn machine, to be used as a particularly big stick wielded by men smarter and more powerful.  He was all stupid, pristine morals and self-righteous indignation and insufferable standards and eat-apple-pie and vote-because-it’s-your-civic-duty American bullshit.

As it turned out, though, after being shoved together by SHIELD in this crazy experiment known as the Avengers, Steve Rogers wasn’t at all what Captain America had been made out to be.  Even though he was naïve and tended to have a very black-and-white view of things, he wasn’t this sanctimonious prick Tony had always envisioned.  Quite the contrary, Steve was one of the least assuming people Tony had ever known.  He expected a lot when it mattered, when lives were on the line and doing the right thing was the only course that could be tolerated, but he wasn’t… an asshole about it.  Sure, disappointing Captain America was damn well upsetting sometimes, but it wasn’t because Steve went out of his way to make people upset.  It was because you were _ashamed_ of yourself.  That was the effect Steve had on other people, inspiring greatness and compassion.  A hero of the highest caliber.

And there was so much more.  Tony had spent the first few months of their tentative working relationship continually pissed off about everything Steve did, from giving him orders on the battlefield to the simple fact that he didn’t _know_ anything about this world he was supposed to be protecting, but it hadn’t taken much for him to realize that Steve was smarter and cleverer than he seemed.  He picked things up quickly and was eager to learn.  He had a snarky, twisted sense of humor.  He could keep up with Tony, maybe not with his genius but definitely with his wit.  He wasn’t perfect, either.  Though he hid it well, he was deeply angry about what had happened to him, deeply depressed at times, and hypervigilant.  He couldn’t freaking _shut off._   He tended to be controlling.  He never let anyone help him, even when he desperately needed it (Tony was becoming an expert on this particular shortcoming – it was like looking in a mirror sometimes, and being on the other side sucked mightily).  He was impulsive and self-sacrificing and _selfless_ to a fault, to the point where it almost became selfish because he didn’t seem to realize (or care) that his actions indirectly hurt others.  Case in point.

Still, despite all that, despite the rocky start and the tough moments since, it hadn’t taken much at all for them to become friends.  To lead the Avengers together, Steve the heart and wisdom behind it all, Tony the brains and the money.  And it hadn’t taken much at all for it to become more.  After the Mandarin, when SHIELD had arrived to secure the situation with the President, Steve had been there at the hospital.  He’d been out of the country with Romanoff and the SHIELD STRIKE Team on a mission while the whole disaster had gone down, but he’d rushed back when news of Tony’s Malibu mansion being destroyed had reached him.  The look in Steve’s eyes…  Tony didn’t think he’d ever forget it.  The concern and anger and raw fear.  He’d stood there in his stealth suit, clearly torn between wanting to rip Tony a new one for baiting the Mandarin before handling the situation by himself and breaking down from sheer relief that the other man was alive and well.  That was when Tony had realized.  That _look_ in Steve’s eyes.  Things he’d been ignoring and denying for a long time were suddenly pressing and irrefutable.  He couldn’t run from who he was.  With or without the arc reactor in his chest, he was Iron Man.

And Iron Man belonged with Captain America.  They were Avengers.

Accepting that meant accepting something else, though.  He couldn’t continue to torture Pepper like this.  He’d known it for weeks, known it even in Malibu before the Mandarin had attacked him.  Everything had fallen apart, and even though he loved Pepper in ways he knew he’d never be able to love anyone else, he couldn’t continue to expose her to his life.  To the dangers and the damage and the hell of wondering if he’d be okay or come home after the latest crisis.  Because of him, she’d been kidnapped, exposed to Extremis, almost _killed._   He couldn’t let that happen again.  _Never again._   So he’d let her go.  She stayed his friend, one of his best and truest.  And she stayed in Malibu and he returned to New York to be with the team.  It was really for the best, and they’d both known it.  She didn’t know why, though, at least not completely.  She didn’t see that she was too good, too pure for him.  She always had been, even if neither of them had allowed themselves to recognize it.

So was Steve.  Too good and too pure.  Perfect in all the ways that really mattered.  Tony seemed to be attracted to things he shouldn’t have.

Weeks had passed after he’d broken up with Pepper before he and Steve had come together.  Looking back on it now, the months between when the Mandarin had restructured his life and when SHIELD had fallen had been some of the best he’d had in a long time.  Sure, there’d been battles and rough moments.  They were who they were, and that life came with deep and devastating consequences sometimes.  But he’d been with Steve and Steve had been with him and that had made everything… _right._   Steve understood him in ways that Pepper never could.  They didn’t get along all the time.  Far from it, in fact.  Neither of them liked admitting he was wrong, and they both tended be to ridiculously stubborn, hard-headed, and somewhat narrow-minded about their own opinions.  Granted, Steve’s opinions were usually so disgustingly _correct_ that Tony felt wrong afterward for even arguing with him (he was still working on finding ways to admit that without being an asshole about it).  Still, this thing they had between them – friendship and sex and love, maybe, if Tony could admit it – was what they both needed.  And it worked so well that they’d both been _happy_ for the first time in what felt like forever.

Then SHIELD had fallen, and everything had fallen with it.

But Steve was _here_.  “I, um…”  He looked dead inside.  Tony could hardly stand it.  “I should’ve called.  But my phone got lost out there and I…”

What he didn’t say was painfully clear.  _I didn’t want to hear you tell me to come home.  I didn’t want to fight._   Tony didn’t know if he wanted to cry or scream or shake some fucking sense into him.  All of the above.  “Well, you’re back now.  You okay?”

He nodded.  _Bullshit._   “I’m okay.”

Tony fought not to roll his eyes.  The day Steve Rogers was ever honest about how hurt he was was the day hell froze over.  “Come on.”  He stepped forward to open the doors to his penthouse, and when Steve turned, he nearly fell.  Tony dropped his case of supplies, the plastic lid popping open and the contents spilling all over the floor, as he grabbed Steve’s arm.  He could feel him shaking now, and he was shaking hard.  “Whoa.  Whoa!  Jesus Christ, are you–”

The mask of stoicism and apathy was crumbling fast.  But like a cornered animal ready to bite, Steve snapped, “I said I’m okay.”

“Don’t be a dick,” Tony returned angrily.  Steve flushed.  “If you came here for help, then let me help you.  Otherwise–”

“Get the hell out?  Fine.”

Jesus, he couldn’t believe Steve was calling his bluff.  He couldn’t believe Steve was _like this._   “No, no, just…”  He sighed.  Pepper had always told him he was bad at this sort of stuff, at being open and honest about what he was thinking and feeling.  She was more willing to be that vulnerable, to confide and share and trust, but for him…  It was damn impossible to be that forthcoming sometimes.  Emotional constipation, she’d called it once or twice.  Steve was the same way as he was.  And he was staring at him now like this was his move in some sort of goddamn game.  “No.  I don’t want to fight.  I can’t do it anymore.”

One blink and the hard, wounded look was gone from Steve’s blue eyes.  Well, the hard part was gone.  The wounded thing hung around hauntingly.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Tony didn’t know for what he was apologizing.  Their argument last time and the time before and the time before that, the argument that had built and built until there’d been no choice but to allow it to explode.  Like too much pressure inside a pipe that wasn’t graded to take it.  Or was he apologizing for leaving like he had last time?  Or showing up now?  Or _everything_?  It was hard to tell, and Tony made himself believe it didn’t matter.  “It’s okay.  You’re here and you’re alright and that’s the important thing.  Let’s just get you cleaned up.  How bad is it?”

Steve gave a rough laugh.  “’s pretty bad.”

For a moment, he feared he wasn’t going to be enough to handle this.  “Then let me call Banner.  Or Cho.  Or someone–”

“No.  Please.”  There was desperation in Steve’s voice.  Tony knew this feeling.  Even if he couldn’t understand _why_ Steve was doing this to himself, he knew well the shame and the guilt and the desire to limit the burden.  The fear of anyone else touching him.  “I just want you.”

He could have made a bad joke about that, would have if Steve hadn’t looked like a dead man walking.  “Alright,” he said softly instead.  “Alright.”  He stepped closer, slowly and pointedly telegraphing what he was doing so as not to startle the younger man.  This was where they were now, it seemed, that he needed to act this way.  “Can you walk?”  That seemed like a dumb question, since Steve had gotten this far by himself.  But it wasn’t, because Steve tried to nod, and it was pretty sadly obvious that was a crock of lies.  So Tony stepped closer and took his arm.  Now he could _really_ feel how much Steve was trembling.  He smelled like sweat and blood and a fight gone wrong.  He fought not to let that bother him as he slung Steve’s right arm over his shoulder and wrapped his hand around Steve’s lower back.  Immediately Steve dumped a significant portion of his weight onto him, and that more than anything showed just how near to collapse he was.  Tony bit his lip until it hurt.  “Come on.”

They shuffled slowly into the penthouse.  He helped Steve limp through the outer rooms and along hallways, passing private living areas and dens and the like, and to his ( _their_ , once upon a time) bedroom.  It always felt so empty now.  Empty since Pepper had moved her stuff out almost a year ago.  And Steve had never quite moved in, though the few things he had left there on occasion (clothes and toiletries mostly) Tony had left exactly where they’d been put.  Tony himself hardly even came here and even then it was just to sleep when the couches of his various workshops were too unappealing.  Of course, unappealing had various levels.  Going back to that California king with the gray silk duvet and expensive sheets was unappealing, too, especially when he was alone as he had been for most of the last six months.  Especially when he could still smell Steve on the pillows no matter how many times they’d been washed.  Even with their relationship waxing and waning and suffering so much, there hadn’t been anyone else.  He didn’t think there would be ever again.

Thus he made a pointed effort to ignore the immaculately dressed bed, pulling Steve instead to the bathroom.  This, too, was immaculate and barely used.  He helped the other man to the toilet and deposited him there on the closed seat.  The backpack and his shield (scorched and scraped, Tony now noticed) hit the tiled floor.  Winded from the effort of it all, Tony caught his breath and looked down.

Steve was absolutely _crushed._   Now in the bright lights of the bathroom, he could see more.  Blood in Steve’s hair.  Cuts all over his face and hands.  Dried red along the side of his neck and down beneath the ripped collar of his shirt.  Who knew what more he’d find under there…  He pulled his hand away from Steve’s side, and it was wet and streaked red.  “Jesus,” he whispered.

“I’m okay.”

Back to lying apparently.  “Yeah, well, I’ll be the judge of that.  I’m going to go get the stuff I dropped.  Alright?  Just… don’t move too much.”  Steve nodded pliantly, and Tony ran back to the hallway to gather up his fallen supplies.  As he crouched and shoved it all back into the case, his fear and worry got the better of him and he was violently shoving and slamming stuff.  What the hell was he supposed to do?  _What the hell what the hell what the hell–_ “JARVIS, get Bruce on the–”  He jabbed his teeth sharply into his tongue to remind himself to stop.  _No._   Breathing through his nose for a moment or two, he tried to calm down.  “J?”

“What is it, sir?  What can I do to help?”

He didn’t have a fucking clue.  “Just…  Be ready to call someone if I need it.”

“Yes, sir.”

 _Fucking goddamn it all to hell._   He couldn’t believe he was in this position _again._   Patching Steve up like this.  Sure, the super soldier serum would do most the work in the end, and, _sure,_ because of that, none of this was fatal or even serious no matter how bad it looked.  But that didn’t make this _okay._   Not in the slightest.  Furious and nearly trembling with it, he lifted the case and rushed back to the bathroom.

Steve hadn’t moved, slumped a bit on the toilet.  Tony set all the supplies down on the floor beside him.  “JARVIS, run the shower.”

Bleary blue eyes lifted to appraise him.  “I can do this myself.”

“Okay, I’m calling bullshit on that.  Something tells me if you could’ve put yourself back together after this latest bout of absolute fucking stupidity, you wouldn’t have come here.”  That came out harsher than he intended, but, damn it, he was feeling used.  And upset.  And _lost._ All the meager excitement and overwhelming relief over having Steve back was gone, replaced by raging frustration.  This wasn’t what he wanted.  This wasn’t fucking _fair_.  “You can’t keep–”

Steve regarded him with those wounded eyes again.  There was nothing fake, nothing forced.  _Please don’t._   That was what he was saying.  _Please don’t._ And Tony capitulated because he always did.  He cared way too much about Steve to hurt him.  Everything inside him twisted up in shame.  He heaved a sigh.  “Let’s get you undressed.”

That took a bit of effort and coordination.  It seemed like now that Steve had stopped moving, getting him going again was a challenge.  Tony managed to work his jacket off, though every twist and turn of Steve’s arms matched a grimace contorting his filthy face.  It was pretty obvious his left arm was worse off, and now that he was wearing just the t-shirt, Tony could see the bruising that went up his bicep.  He snatched a pair of scissors from the kit and unceremoniously started cutting.  “I could’ve–”

“I’ll buy you another five dollar shirt.”

Steve offered up a shadow of a smile.  “This one was more than five dollars.”

Tony cocked an eyebrow.  “There’s pretty much nothing you can say right now to convince me to salvage this.”  Carefully he ripped the remains away.  He was a goddamn broken record, more now than all the other times he’d done this.  And he’d known what to expect, but he _still_ couldn’t help his horror.  “Fucking hell, Steve…”

There didn’t seem to a spot on Steve _not_ hurt.  His torso was a mess of bruises, welts, and lacerations.  A few injuries looked deep and dangerous, weeping red with enough dried blood around them to indicate they’d bled quite a while.  The contusions lining his flanks were large and enflamed, likely signifying bruised or even cracked ribs.  His left arm was a disaster; his shoulder had obviously been dislocated and he’d probably forced it back in himself.  The bruising there was deep and hideous.  Some of the marks on his chest looked like bullet grazes.  Some looked like knife wounds.  Some were older, but most seemed fresh, and the serum hadn’t done much to heal any of it yet.  A particularly nasty mess covered the area right above his left hip, and his jeans there were heavily stained purple.  There was dirt and what looked like little pieces of metal embedded in the torn skin.   He’d clearly been in a hell of a fight, one from which he’d probably been lucky to escape.  Tony knew _exactly_ how strong and tough Captain America was.  He knew what it took to hurt him, let alone hurt him like this.   “Jesus Christ…  What happened?”

He really wasn’t expecting an answer.  Lord knew he’d asked that every time in the past, and Steve never explained, never went into any details.  But explain he did.  “Walked into a trap,” he murmured, wincing as he took stock of his own litany of injuries like it was a surprise to him.  “After – after Sam went back, I chased down a lead through a couple of crime syndicates in eastern Europe.  In Latveria.  Thought I had something on – on Lukin.  Thought I could get eyes on him if I could find Lukin.”  He grimaced harder as Tony crouched beside him, eyeing the mess of his side more carefully.  “Turns out they had eyes on me.  They were waiting for me.  Dozens of HYDRA bastards.  Barely got out.  Got lucky and found a plane in Prague headed for New York.”

It was so hard not to be angry.  “Why didn’t you call Wilson back?  Why didn’t you call _someone?_ ”  He couldn’t bear to say it.  _Why didn’t you call me?_

Steve swallowed thickly.  “Couldn’t risk dragging anyone else in.  Probably good I didn’t, considering how it turned out.”

Tony didn’t have it in him to argue.  It was always a challenge to stay calm in moments like this, moments where Steve’s own fucking insistence on taking the world on his shoulders alone and his old enemies and their fucking vendetta against him, where all of _that_ created a situation that led to him looking over Captain America’s extensive injuries and wondering why it had to be this way.  He’d gone through his fair share of dark times, but seeing someone else drowning in theirs…  This was worse.  He battled for detachment, reaching for the kit and digging through for gloves.  Finding some, he donned them.  “I need to clean this.”

“Yeah,” Steve whispered.

“Some of it’s already healed.”

“I know.”

There weren’t enough ways to curse off the world.  Tony forced his lungs to draw in a few deep breaths, forced his stomach to stay where it was.  He knew it was damn pointless, but he grabbed the preloaded syringes of antibiotics and morphine and punched them all into Steve’s arm.  In times past, when things hadn’t been quite this bad or pushed this far, Steve would have chastised him for being wasteful.  Now he had a look in his eyes like he’d be grateful for even a placebo effect.  If Steve had to grin and bear it, he would, too.  He ripped open some bandages, found a pair of tweezers, found a scalpel, and tried not to think.  For him, that was practically impossible.  “Ready?”

It didn’t much matter, but he waited for Steve’s nod.  Then he went to work.  He had agile hands, fingers trained from years of working with electronics.  Surgery wasn’t so different from repairing the complicated and delicate innards of any one of his inventions really.  _Really._   He consoled himself with that as he started digging inside Steve’s flank for debris.  Steve stiffened the second the sterilized tip of the tweezers touched his ragged torn flesh.  He was barely breathing, stiff as a tree, and if he squeezed his hands together any harder, he’d likely break his own fingers.  Tony pulled a shard of metal no bigger than a pellet from the bloody area.  He swallowed down the burn of bile in the back of his throat before dropping the shrapnel into a wad of toilet paper beside him on the floor.  “What did this?”

“Buckshot,” Steve whispered.  He was paler than he’d been before, gray with pain, and sweat was dripping down his face.  Tony grimaced and hated the whole lot of HYDRA even more.  Buckshot could kill someone at a close enough range, sure, but to Captain America?  It was just cruel.  However, he shoved aside his feelings yet again and concentrated on his task.

For a few long minutes, there was nothing but the sound of Steve’s strained breathing and Tony’s heart thundering.  He worked quickly, pulling as many pellets and shards from the skin and muscles as he could.  There were a lot, and some of them were in deep.  Some required fresh cuts be made into newly healed skin, and he did that with chagrin.  Steve was shaking good and hard about five minutes in.  “Easy,” Tony murmured, grabbing Steve’s hand where it was clenching his knee in a death grip.  He smeared blood there, but he didn’t care, letting Steve squeeze his hand and concentrate on not crushing his fingers for a moment or two.  He needed the contact, needed to be grounded.  “Easy.”

“How much more?”

Tony pulled away and went back to it.  “Some.”  The silence returned.  Tony forced himself to keep going, even as Steve wavered and suffered and truly let that show.  That was more upsetting than he was going to admit, and his hands were shaking now.  Finally, he was satisfied he’d gotten it all out.  “Okay.  Okay.”  He set the tools aside and reached for the bandages.  “Pressure now.”  He pushed hard, and now Steve couldn’t hold in his whimper.  “It’s alright.”

They stayed like that for a while, Tony pressing firmly on the area to stem the fresh bleeding, Steve as white as a sheet and clinging to consciousness beside him.  No matter how angry Tony was, he couldn’t stand this look on Steve’s face, equal parts pain and surrender.  He looped his free arm around Steve’s shoulders and held him, letting the younger man lean into him again.  “I’ve got you,” he promised.  Steve buried his face into the side of Tony’s throat.  “I’ve got you.”

“’m sorry.”

Tony closed his eyes.  “I’m sorry.”  He wrapped his arm around Steve’s neck, curling his fingers into the hair on the back of his head.  “I’m sorry, too.”

Again, they stayed like that.  It was all he could do just to breathe, holding the bandage and holding Steve and trying not to fall apart.  When he found it within himself to check again, the bleeding was much better.  “Alright.  Making some progress here.  We’re good.  Right?”  Steve lifted his head a little, eyes wet and still so wounded, and Tony couldn’t help himself anymore.  He grasped Steve’s face and kissed him hard.

There wasn’t anything restrained about this.  Not when he’d been dreaming about it and wanting it and waiting for it.  Steve didn’t do much more than submit, than open his mouth and let Tony in, but that was enough for now.  Enough to feel him and taste him and _know_ he was there.  At least for right now, he was home.

He moved faster after that.  It was pretty obvious Steve was too exhausted to last much longer, so he worked quickly to get him up and undressed the rest of the way and into the shower JARVIS had finally started running.  The water was hot and pleasant, and Tony stripped down to his boxers to help Steve wash.  He was careful of all the wounds, running the soap lightly to cleanse away the dirt and blood but not aggravate anything.  Steve sat on the expensive tiled bench and let Tony work, too tired even to protest.  Ruddy, muddy water sluiced down his body, draining down and disappearing at their feet.  If only it could wash everything away.  Sad and frustrated still, he grabbed his shampoo and worked it into a lather in Steve’s hair.  Steve winced even at the gentle ministrations, and Tony found patience he didn’t have for anyone else, going even more slowly and carefully.  He felt a couple large welts on the back of Steve’s head.  Places where he’d been struck or kicked.  He took the moment to examine them and was thankful to find, aside from matted blood, there wasn’t much damage.  He grabbed the detachable shower head and rinsed.

Steve said nothing the entire time, watching him dazedly with half-lidded, empty eyes.  Tony cupped his face, running his thumbs along Steve’s jawline, over the beard that had grown there and mindful of all the bruises.  “Why are you doing this to yourself?” His voice, as soft as it was, was thunderous.  All the times this had happened since SHIELD had gone down, all the heated discussions and outright bitter arguments, and he’d never really asked that.  “Why?”

Steve didn’t answer.  He reached up his right hand and took Tony’s, pulling it down and closing his eyes.  He leaned forward, pressing his face into the smattering of scars on Tony’s sternum.  Helpless and hating everything, Tony just held him.

Eventually he found the energy to help Steve out of the shower.  His steps were even more unsteady as he walked back to the toilet.  Tony tenderly dried him off and had him sit there again.  After that he quickly went to work bandaging up the worst of the wounds.  Liberally he applied antibiotic and topical salves where he could.  The deeper slashes he stapled shut with the suture kit before taping pads over them.  He wrapped up Steve’s ribs and his shoulder.  Dozens of smaller bandages were applied from head to toe.  It took more than thirty minutes for him to tend to it all.  When he was done, Steve looked like a mummy of sorts, shivering and half asleep and lower than Tony had ever seen him be, and Tony miserably wondered if this was the best he could do.

It was even harder at this point to get him going again, but he did.  When Steve wasn’t standing tall, he _really_ wasn’t standing tall, and two hundred fifty some odd pounds of muscle was a lot to carry.  Tony barely managed, knowing that if he didn’t get the younger man dressed and into bed in short order, they’d both be spending an unpleasant night in the bathroom.  It was a graceless show of limping, staggering, and stumbling.  Once they were at the bed, Tony left Steve there and found both of them some clothes.  Donning some pajamas, he hunted in his dresser.  There were some old sweats that had been left here months ago, carefully placed in the bottom drawer.  He was repulsed to see they said “SHIELD” on them, but beggars couldn’t really choosers.  _Fucking assholes,_ he thought again as he slammed shut the drawer.  _The whole fucking lot of them._

Back at the bed, Steve was going down fast, slumping to his less injured side.  “No.  Nuh-uh.  C’mon.”  He crouched in front, working a pair of boxers up Steve’s bruised legs.  Christ, even his _toes_ were black and blue.  “Ass up, Rogers.”  Steve didn’t joke, didn’t grin, didn’t even seem to notice the chance to make a snarky, flirty comment.  Tony quickly pulled the underwear into place before following with the sweats.  “You’re going to sleep this off.”

“Yeah,” Steve murmured.  He already was well on his way there.

Tony pushed the sweatshirt over his head, mussing his already mussed, damp hair, and helped him get his left arm in the sleeve.  He helped him lay back, pulling the duvet out, situating the pillows, getting him bedded down.  He helped him roll onto his better side.  He helped and helped until he was starting to feel worn and hollow.  Steve’s eyes were closed before his head even hit the pillow, before Tony had even tucked him in.  “We’re talking about this when you wake up.  You hear me?”  There was no response.  Tony brushed his hand through Steve’s hair, turning his face to see him better.  “Steve?”

Steve was already asleep.

The penthouse was painfully silent.  Tony leaned back, aching all over from the tension of it all, and closed his eyes.  “Jesus,” he whispered.  How the hell had this happened?  When had _he_ become the one caring for someone else like this?  He didn’t feel ready, good enough, equipped for this _at all._   Even still, months after this awful, vicious cycle of theirs had started, he didn’t think he could do this.  And maybe he couldn’t.  Maybe he _shouldn’t_.  It was inevitable, how it would go.  A goddamn script he’d memorized, play by play, scene by scene, line by line.  The way this _always_ worked.  He cleaned Steve up.  Patched him up and the serum took him the rest of the way.  Fed him.  Listened to what Steve had to say.  Distracted him.  Made him feel good.  Felt good, himself.  And, sure, they talked.  They’d act happy and normal for a day or so.  But it never lasted.  They’d sleep together like all of this other hell wasn’t happening.  They’d have sex.  Fight (not necessarily in that order).  More sex.  Fight more.  Everything would break apart, shatter, and the shards of everything they’d wanted would cut them both until they bled.  And then Steve would leave and Tony would be back to worrying and waiting.

He was exhausted and miserable just thinking about it.

And he was too jittery and jacked up from everything to go to bed right now, even though it was almost midnight.  Instead he left Steve deep in slumber and padded back to the bathroom.  It was a mess in there.  Ripped wrappers from the bandages on the floor.  Spent syringes.  Discarded sterile pads and gauze.  Blood smears and drops.  Mud.  The open first aid kit and the tweezers and the reddened scalpel and every piece of buckshot he’d picked out of Steve’s body.  Steve’s ruined clothes.

Steve’s backpack and shield.

“Sir, the cleaning staff can tend to this tomorrow,” JARVIS reminded him.  “I have taken the liberty of alerting them.”

Tony didn’t care much about that.  Instead he went to Steve’s things.  The shield was easy to pick up, even though he knew how Steve disliked other people handling it.  It always surprised him with just how light it was.  The paint was pretty damaged; it looked like an RPG or something of the like had exploded against it.  He could buff it, repaint it, maybe with something more fireproof…  Even thinking about that wasn’t enough to quell his curiosity about the bag.  “Goddamn it,” he whispered as he lifted it.  It was about as muddy and ragged as the rest of Steve’s stuff.  The last couple of times Steve had been here, he hadn’t had this.  He really shouldn’t look.  He _really_ shouldn’t.  It was so damn tempting, though.  So tempting.  Tony was many things, but patient was not one of them.  He had no respect for personal boundaries (Pepper had told him that, too.  So had Steve once or twice).  He had no self-restraint.  And he was curious to a fault.  What was inside?  He felt through the canvas, testing a little.  There was something squishy, but most of it was hard with firm edges.  Books?  _What the hell?_   Fuck not looking.  He went for the zipper.

“Sir.”  JARVIS’ voice yanked him from his thoughts.  He almost dropped Steve’s backpack he was so startled.  He glared at the ceiling for the second time in as many hours.  JARVIS was always policing him.  At least this time he had another motive.  “Perhaps a call to Ms. Romanoff would be in order.”

Tony sighed.  “Patch it through to my phone.”  He shouldered Steve’s backpack (which was heavier than it seemed it should be, now that he noticed it) and went over to his discarded jeans.  He fished his phone out of his pocket and held it up to his ear.  Killing the lights in the room, he took Steve’s shield and headed back into the bedroom.  “Blinds, J.”

The AI closed them.  Tony set Steve’s things down in the elaborate seating area.  Over his phone, the line was ringing.  “Hello?” came Romanoff’s voice.

He let the backpack go with an irritated sigh.  “Natasha, it’s Tony.”

There was a pause.  Romanoff was too prickly and difficult for him to read sometimes.  They tolerated each other at best, but she was close with Steve.  The whole “banding together to take down HYDRA” thing had apparently cemented their friendship.  Steve had even told him once before everything had gone to hell that Romanoff had been trying to set him up with every unattached female at SHIELD.  Tony turned back to the bed, because they’d had that conversation right there, with Steve’s head pillowed on his stomach and his hands in Steve’s hair.  They’d laughed about it, stupidly proud that they’d somehow managed to carry on this “secret affair” without the world’s best spy catching wise.  He looked away.  He couldn’t even imagine how Steve’s laugh sounded now.  That might have been the last time he’d heard it.

At any rate, Romanoff and he didn’t see eye to eye, so if he was calling, there’d only be one reason and she knew that.  “Is he there?”

“Yeah, he’s here.”

There was another pause.  He could practically hear Natasha’s relief in her silence.  Relief battling with worry, actually.  “Is he okay?”

Unbidden Tony’s eyes went right back to Steve.  He didn’t know what to say.  He was a decent liar (well, when he wasn’t this beaten down and flustered).  But what was the point of that?  She’d see through it anyway.  Any chance that their “secret affair” had escaped her notice before had died after he’d rushed down to DC practically out of his mind in panic to find Steve in the ICU with a fucking _respirator_ breathing for him because the Winter Soldier had stabbed him, pumped four bullets in his body, and practically let him drown.  “He’s here,” he lamely said again.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean, Stark?”

He didn’t care for the vitriol in her tone.  “It means I’m taking care of it.”  _Of him._

That still wasn’t enough for her.  “I can be there in six hours.”

“No,” Tony snapped.  He lowered his tone because that came out pretty loud, but Steve hadn’t so much as stirred.  “No.  He’s here, and he’s fine, and I’ve got this.”  Silence again.  He could hear her judging him.  Who the fuck was she to do that?  Honestly, it had been her job to have Steve’s back during the whole SHIELD debacle.  And there probably hadn’t been anything she could have done, but what the hell – she _gave_ Steve the file on Barnes that had started this whole shit storm.  She’d done that _in spite of_ Tony asking her not to.

He knew he wasn’t being fair.  Steve was the most driven man Tony knew; if he wanted to go off on this ridiculous quest of his, there was no way any of them could have stopped him, secret Soviet documents or no.  That was the crux of the whole problem.  Who were they to tell him what to do?

He wasn’t going to answer that.  Not even to himself.  “I can handle this.  I have every time before.”

Now her tone was softer.  Deep with worry and weary and long-suffering.  “Every time before keeps piling up.  He can’t keep doing this.  He’s going to get himself killed.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“I know you do,” she replied disarmingly.  “But HYDRA’s gunning for him all over the globe.  They might have been before, but he’s making himself even more of a target.  I think he’s getting more desperate.  Trying to be visible, thinking it might draw Barnes to him.”  _Jesus._   Did he even care that Barnes was HYDRA’s lapdog, that he’d nearly murdered him not more than a few months ago?  Brainwashed or no, the man was dangerous.  Which was straight to Natasha’s point.  “And… I don’t trust Barnes if he _does_ find him.”  She paused again.  She could be blunt when it suited her, and she was now.  “Were he and Barnes–”

“No.”  Steve had told him that when they’d first gotten together before any of this had happened.  He’d said he’d never been with anyone else (let alone another man), but he’d been in love before.  He’d been deeply in love with Peggy Carter.  And then he’d explained more, one night at the beginning of all this hell when he’d come back from his fruitless hunt, low from so many dead ends and useless leads and failure heaped upon failure.  Tony had asked when they’d laid in bed, spent like a couple of addicts lazing and drifting after their fix.  Steve had answered.  _“He’s my friend, Tony.  I owe him everything.”_

Everything meant _everything_ , it seemed.  But, then, that was one thing about Steve that never seemed to change no matter how screwed up everything around them and between them became.  When he said something, he meant it.  So when he called Bucky Barnes his brother, a brother who’d taken of him when he’d been a sick, scrawny kid, who’d kept the bullies away, who’d protected him and kept him going, who’d stood by his side through thick and thin and the Depression and the war…  Tony absolutely believed him.

That didn’t make him like Barnes one bit more, though, especially with all of his many atrocities becoming public knowledge as the data dump from SHIELD was picked apart and analyzed all across the globe.  This was another thing Tony had tried to ignore, because he _knew_ if he looked into the litany of assassinations and arsons and murders and miseries, he’d hate this whole fucked up situation even more.  Whoever he had been, Barnes was a fucking monster now.

“I don’t understand why he’s doing this,” Natasha confessed, pulling Tony from his thoughts.  He supposed she didn’t.  She and Steve were friends, but they were about as opposite as two people could be.  Wilson got it, though, even if he didn’t like it.  But she didn’t seem capable of processing a relationship that was so meaningful that one would sacrifice oneself like this.  Truth be told, Tony didn’t entirely, either.  Only recently had he started to feel enough through all of the trauma he’d suffered to love someone else like this.  To do whatever was necessary for someone about whom you cared deeply.  It didn’t matter what sort of love that was.  All that mattered was the _connection_.  She sighed over the line.  “I don’t know what to think anymore.”  It took a lot for her to admit it.  He knew what it took for him to.  “What are you going to do?”

Hell if he knew.  “Whatever I can.”  He could practically hear Romanoff’s anger sizzling at that blasé response.  “I’ll fix it somehow.  I – I’ll find a way.”

“Stark–”

“I’ve got this,” he swore again.  The bravado came easy.  It always did.  “He’s safe with me.  I’ll call you tomorrow.”  He hung up before she could argue.

The quiet was back again.  Tony sagged under the weight of it.  Now he was bone weary.  He set his phone to the coffee table and looked again at Steve’s backpack.  All that pressing interest before was gone.  He didn’t think he could deal with whatever he might find.  So he wandered back to the bed and wearily climbed in next to Steve.

Steve was always so hot when he slept.  Tony didn’t know if it was the serum or his body overheating in a prolonged response to the ice or what, but he was a veritable furnace.  Tony normally didn’t like being warm when he slept, but with Steve he always made an exception.  And he normally didn’t like being tangled up in someone else, either, but again, _with Steve_ he made an exception.  So he slid close and wrapped his arms around Steve’s midsection.  He closed his eyes against the burning in them and burrowed as close as he could.

God, he’d missed _this_ most of all.

He lay there for a long time with his thoughts spinning like wheels without traction.  Steve was breathing deeply, evenly, and even though Tony couldn’t see his face, he knew he was peaceful.  Like things used to be.  _Alright._   He had to make it that way again.  That goddamn script, the play by play and scene by scene…  He wasn’t going to let that happen this time.  He wasn’t going to let his emotions get the better of him.  He wasn’t going to let Steve leave again.  He could fix this.  _Talk._   They could do that.  They could talk and not fight.  He’d have to find a way to make that happen, because this had to stop.  _It had to._

He kissed the back of Steve’s neck.  “It’s going to be okay,” he whispered.  Again he didn’t know who he was promising more, himself or Steve.  And, again, it didn’t matter one bit.  Somehow…  Somehow he was going to make this right.


	2. Chapter 2

_“So if you made it just be glad that you did and stay there._  
_If you ever feel love, don’t need it._  
_Remember that you’re one of the lucky ones.”_  
– Straylight Run, “The Perfect Ending”

 

There was this thing whenever Steve came home.  This fear.  This _dread._   Tony couldn’t help it.

He was terrified he’d wake up and Steve would be gone.

Though his senses were telling him otherwise, his brain was still trapped in a hazy, formless, _anxious_ dream.  He’d been having them all night, not nightmares per se, but strange, unsettling thoughts and sensations.  Emotions manifesting themselves rather unpleasantly into murky impressions of being left alone, of not being loved, of not doing well enough, of not being _good_ enough.  Of losing everything and everyone he needed.  Story of his life, really, when he cared to think about it (which he didn’t often).  At any rate, his mind was busy ignoring the fact that there was heat beside him and his arms were wrapped around something ( _someone_ ) and his face was buried into something soft and nice-smelling.  So he lingered in that place between slumber and awareness for a while, sort of a helpless prisoner in a war between deep, aching apprehension and knowing it was okay, until he finally woke up.

Steve was still there.

Thank God, _Steve was still there._

Of course he would be.  He wasn’t in much shape to go anywhere, not as battered as he was.  But rational thought was always a difficult thing to come by when you’d been hurt as many times as Tony had been.  This would hardly have been the first time he’d woken up to an empty bed, to cold sheets and a colder pillow and ice in his chest.  It was a chicken shit thing to do, Steve leaving during the night as he had in the past.  Tony had called him out on it once or twice during their more heated arguments, and Steve had spouted a geyser of bullshit about how it was for “Tony’s sake”, that it was easier on them both when he just left without making a show of it.  Further into their vicious cycle of it all, Tony had stopped mentioning it, and Steve had simply done it silently.  So arising the morning after whatever hell they’d had the night before to find himself alone and abandoned…  Yeah, he was right to be worried.

Not this time, thankfully.  Tony propped himself up as carefully as he could, unwilling to disturb the man next to him.  There was no reason to be concerned about that, as it turned out.  Steve was still sound asleep.  Dead to the world, really.  He hadn’t so much as moved during the night, which was unusual for him, especially since SHIELD had gone down.  In fact, neither of them were particularly restful sleepers, though Tony liked to think Steve got comfort from being with him.  He knew he certainly did, and Steve seemed to (at least before all this hell had erupted), so maybe that wasn’t so far-fetched.  At any rate, he was still laying on his less injured side with his back to Tony.  He was taking in calm, measured breaths, his eyes closed peacefully, his bruised face already better in the new day’s light that was seeping in through the blinds of the penthouse.  His hair had dried a little funky, but it was soft and silky and it was what had smelled good because Tony’s nose had been buried in it.  He wasn’t used to being the big spoon with Steve.  It was nice, for a change, and empowering in a way.  Even though Steve was bigger than he was and stronger than he was and better than he was, this made Tony feel like he was needed.

Yeah, that was self-deprecating crap, but it was true enough that he just wanted to cling to it for a minute.  And he just wanted to cling to Steve for a minute, too, because he was _still there_.  Still in bed with him.  Still sleeping, still peaceful.  God, he was beautiful, even as bruised and broken as he was these days.  It was hard not to stay there and appreciate that.  So he did.  He sank back down and cuddled closer (not that he much cared for cuddling, mind you, or PDA or any of that fake, shallow relationship nonsense that required him to be open and vulnerable and not himself – but, again, with Steve he made an exception, because this was Steve and Steve felt good and Steve needed it as much as he needed it and he was goddamn _sure_ of that).  He slid his arm up Steve’s hip and over his side again, gently snaking it around his midsection.  He pushed his leg over Steve’s, too, before burying his face into the place between Steve’s shoulder blades.  Tony closed his eyes and breathed of him, that scent he’d tried to forget, that heat and strength and sense of belonging.  He let his hand skirt under Steve’s sweatshirt to rub over a surprisingly bare spot over his ribs.  He let himself be deeply relieved to have him there and quietly possessive.  He let himself bask in the moment, drift and doze and pretend everything was fine.  He could do that.  Pretend things were the way they had been before SHIELD had collapsed.

Of course, this had never happened back then because Steve had always been up at the ass crack of dawn to run or work out or work or do whatever terribly pressing thing needed doing.  He was a bit of a Boy Scout like that, over eager and over active.  But there’d been times when he’d come back to bed later on or when they’d slept in together even…  When Steve had teased him about letting the day go to waste in between planting playful kisses all over his throat and chest and basically pinning him where he’d been so it had just as much fault as it had been Tony’s that they’d gotten nothing useful done.  The way Steve had looked _then,_ beautiful but younger even though it had only been months ago.  So much lighter and freer.  Bright blue eyes and easy smiles and rippling muscles and so much strength it was intoxicating.  Tony sank into those memories, those precious moments where there was no HYDRA and no Project: Insight and no Winter Soldier.  Nothing but the two of them in this bed and no cares because as long as they’d been together, whatever the world had thrown at them and the Avengers had been conquerable.  They’d been invincible.  God, they’d been naïve.

He didn’t let that trouble him.  Not now.  He breathed along with Steve, felt his heart beat along with Steve’s, felt the tension ebb from his muscles so he was as pliant and loose and content as Steve was.  He could indulge.  He had a problem with trading obsessions in for other obsessions, with giving up one vice, one addiction, for another.  Booze and partying and sleeping around and tinkering until the pain was gone.  Building and building until there was nothing left inside him but hollow numbness.  But this addiction was alright, wasn’t it?  Feeding senses that had been touch-starved and suffering with want and worry.  Obliging this _need_ he’d been so desperately ignoring to go back to the way things were.  He told himself it was okay.  It _was_ okay.  He could lay there and snuggle up and lay tired kisses to Steve’s back and kid himself.  It felt good, and he deserved it.  They both did.  All the other bullshit was still there, but it could wait.

It didn’t wait long.  “Sir.”

JARVIS’ soft, unimposing tone was like a crack of thunder through the silence of the bedroom.  Tony let go of a long breath.  “What,” he grumbled.

“Miss Potts has been trying to contact you.  She has left nearly a dozen voicemails since last night.”  He knew there was something Pepper wanted, something he was supposed to do for her, but damn if he could remember what.  He didn’t _want_ to remember what.  JARVIS, the asshole, of course reminded him.  “She needs the new arc reactor specifications immediately.  You were supposed to deliver them yesterday.”

Yeah, that was what.  “So send them.”  Stubbornly he shut his eyes again and curled his hand tighter into Steve’s sweatshirt.

“They are not finished,” JARVIS simply reminded.

“So _finish_ them,” Tony quietly seethed.  “Finish them and send them and fuck off.”

“I cannot,” JARVIS declared, undeterred by his vitriol, “and I suggest you gather yourself.  Mr. Wilson is here.”

Tony grimaced, leaning away from Steve.  “Wilson?”

“Yes.  I told him you were not prepared to take visitors at this time–”

“What time is it?”

“A little past ten o’clock, sir.  However, he says he is quite willing to wait.”

Of course he was.  Sam Wilson was about the least demanding person Tony knew.  Whereas he and Romanoff didn’t quite see eye to eye, he and Sam had a better understanding.  Steve had made quick and easy friends with Wilson right before HYDRA had emerged from inside SHIELD.  Apparently they’d met on one of Steve’s godawful, too-goddamn-early o’clock runs down in DC.  Wilson was a former Air Force guy, the coincidental recipient of one of Tony’s now abandoned projects for the military: the EXO Falcon.  Honestly, Tony hardly remembered the invention, hadn’t recalled it all until he’d _seen_ it flying on TV over the Potomac, engaged with three enemy helicarriers in a desperate battle (two men against _thousands_ ) to stop Project: Insight.  Wilson was a really decent guy, and he’d stood by Steve without any real reason to other than being decent.  He was a very good friend to Steve, loyal and accepting and damn well _patient._   He’d willingly let himself get dragged back into combat after retiring just because Steve had needed him.  And he’d stayed with Steve since, no matter how hard or dangerous it was.  Tony had first seen him in the ICU, hunched in a chair beside Steve’s motionless body, bruised and beaten to hell but keeping vigil over Steve like it was the most important job in the world.  There was a moment where Tony might have been jealous that Steve had found someone else in whom to confide, someone else to whom he could turn, but the moment he’d held Sam’s gaze with Steve between them, Steve who was barely clinging to survival and being kept alive by machines and who meant so much to both of them…  _“He needs you,”_ was all Sam had said.  Well, that (and the imagery) had been rather direct and prophetic. 

Tony always got the sense from Romanoff that she didn’t quite trust him to take care of Steve, that she didn’t think he was good enough for Steve.  She didn’t like the differences between them.  The age difference (not that Tony was old, but Steve was more than ten years his junior), the difference in personalities (that went without saying), the differences in opinions (that _definitely_ went without saying), the difference in backgrounds (the poorest of the poor, destitute, sick and frail against privilege and power, wealth and health).  So many _differences_.  She couldn’t seem to get past that.  Sam, on the other hand, was a lot less judgmental.  Sam wanted what was best for Steve, but he was willing to accept that what was best wasn’t his call.  The thing was, when it really came down to it, Tony and Sam had some common ground: enabling Steve.  Neither of them thought what he was doing was healthy (or even sane), but they were both committed to helping him, one way or another.  Sam by joining Steve on this quest.  Tony by picking up the pieces when they failed (not always willingly but doing it nonetheless).  It was a silent understanding between them, once more something in which Natasha didn’t participate.  A silent agreement of sorts.  Sam would keep Steve alive, no matter how dangerous it got.  Tony would put him back together, no matter how broken he became.

Thinking about it now, Tony realized this arrangement fucking _sucked._

Still, if Sam was here, it wasn’t because he didn’t trust Tony.  It was because he was really and truly worried.  So as much as he wanted to lay there all morning, holding Steve and watching him sleep and making _damn sure_ he didn’t leave, that wasn’t an option.  Romanoff he might ignore.  Anyone else might have.  But not Wilson.  Wilson deserved better.

It took a seemingly monumental amount of effort to untangle himself from Steve.  He did it carefully, wary of jostling and waking him.  His joints popped and his shoulder and back ached from sleeping under Steve’s weight all night, but a few steps later that was tolerable.  He went around to Steve’s side of the bed to get a look at his face again.  The younger man didn’t stir at all, breathing deeply and evenly into the pillow.  Tony pulled the duvet up and over him a little more firmly before dropping the back of his hand to Steve’s forehead, brushing back the blond hair there.  “J?”

“I will keep an eye on him, sir,” JARVIS responded.

That didn’t feel to be good enough.  Of course nothing short of him staying there would be good enough, but, again, that wasn’t an option.  So he sighed wearily, letting his fingers linger a moment or two more, wanting to chance a kiss but not brave enough to risk it.  Already irritated, he walked to the closet to get some clothes.  He got halfway through selecting a pair of jeans and a t-shirt before he remembered the bathroom in the penthouse was still a mess from last night.  He didn’t think he had it in him to deal with that right now.  “Gonna go use the bathroom in the workshop,” he solemnly announced.  “When I’m through, have him come up.”

“To your workshop?”

There it was again with that safe haven thing.  His inner sanctum where few were allowed to tread.  Bruce on occasion.  Pepper.  And Steve.  “Yeah.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tony’s brain checked out as he left the bedroom after a final glance to make sure Steve was still safe in his bed and sound asleep (which he was).  He made his way to the elevator.  Nothing about last night seemed quite real, not how Steve had shown up nor how hurt he’d been.  Not even how Tony was feeling.  Detached, at the moment.  Not quite with it.  That lasted until he noticed something on the floor of the lift as it went down.  And something smeared on the wall.  Rusty red.  _Goddamn it._   “JARVIS, have the cleaning people do here, too.”

“Yes, sir.”

For the remainder of the minute or so he spent in the elevator, his brain fucking betrayed him with images of Steve barely standing, Steve dripping blood, wiping it on the wall by accident as he tried to steady himself and keep his feet beneath him.  Steve, beat to hell and hoping Tony would forgive him enough to take him in again.  He couldn’t decide if that pissed him off more or made him feel guiltier.  Both, he supposed.  Down the shame spiral he went anew.

He got himself to his workshop without thinking too much more, which was a small blessing.  The lights came on as he passed through the security scanners and doors.  Everything was the same as it had been last night, except the mess of the circuit board he’d ruined was gone.  At least DUM-E had taken care of that.  The little bot chirped and whirred at his arrival, but then he seemed to realize Steve wasn’t with him and visibly deflated.  As Tony crossed the room to the private areas in the back, DUM-E following him with his arm poised expectantly, he was almost irritated.  Almost.  Getting annoyed required too much energy, and the further away he got from Steve and his bed and that pleasant haze where only the good memories were, the harder it became to keep going.  Thus he simply gave the bot an exasperated look.  “He’s fine,” he promised shortly.  DUM-E didn’t believe him for a second this time, slumping with a hydraulic whine.  Tony rolled his eyes and tried not to care.

He was on automatic pilot as he went into the bathroom and made himself look halfway decent.  His hair had still been damp when he’d fallen asleep, so he had a rather fabulous case of bedhead.  He needed a shave, but that felt like too much work again.  Brushing his teeth and flattening down his hair seemed to be about the best he could manage.  That and getting dressed.  That latter thing seemed stupidly important.  For some reason, he was afraid Sam would think that they’d done something _inappropriate_ (like fucked each other silly) last night.  He was pretty sure Romanoff had reduced their relationship to meaningless sex (to be fair, maybe Tony had given her reason to do that.  But that was all in the past), and he didn’t want Wilson to think the same.  And he didn’t want Wilson to think he didn’t have this under control, _because he did._   He knew how to take care of Steve.  He might suck at pretty much every other aspect of relationships, but he _knew_ how to take care of Steve.

Therefore, being mostly presentable was key.  And he managed that, checking and double-checking in the mirror because his brain wasn’t quite processing anything, before heading out to greet his guest.

JARVIS had already let Wilson in.  He was standing near the entrance, looking around with restrained interest.  He was dressed in jeans, a red polo shirt, and a black jacket, and he seemed calm, or at least not daunted by being invited into the workshop.  He turned around when he heard Tony come in.  “Where’s Steve?”  He wasn’t bothering with pleasantries apparently.

Tony hadn’t expected him to.  “Sleeping.”

Sam’s face relaxed into a slightly less guarded frown, and he nodded.  “Probably the best thing for him.  Is he okay?”

Tony wasn’t any more certain of how to answer that now than he had been with Romanoff.  “Obviously you talked to Natasha.”  Sam didn’t respond, which in and of itself said that response wasn’t good enough.  Tony sighed.  “He was pretty screwed up.  Patched him up, though.”

“How bad?”

“Bad,” Tony conceded.  Sam swore softly under his breath and looked away hotly.  He shook his head, mostly to himself, and Tony could see the anger work its way over him.  “But the serum’s working.  It always does.”

Sam bit his lip.  He was really struggling with this, with his own anger and guilt and frustration.  Tony supposed that made sense.  He hadn’t really talked to Wilson since Steve had left the last time.  After that, it had been a bunch of short texts and calls, never much more _“anything?”_ and _“you hear from him?”_.  It hadn’t much occurred to him, outside the relative solitude of the Tower, that Sam had probably been suffering, too.  Waiting and wondering and worrying.  Trying to keep himself busy.  Trying not to drive himself crazy.  He shook his head again.  “Should never have left him.”

Tony couldn’t help his ire.  He knew this wasn’t Sam’s fault, but damn if it wasn’t hard to stop himself.  “Why did you?”

“How the hell was I supposed to know he’d do this?” Sam retorted sharply.  “He told me he was coming back!   I didn’t think he’d go silent and fucking martyr himself!”  It hurt to hear that.  Tony was tempted – so tempted – to say something to refute it, that Steve wasn’t sacrificing himself for Barnes and this crazy cause of his, but he knew that was a bald-faced lie and he didn’t want to make this worse.  Sam calmed himself at any rate.  He always did.  The guy was a rock, cool and level-headed and unshakable.  A steady port in the storm.  Tony had to admit he was jealous.  This was why Steve needed Sam, why they _both_ did.  “He said he was going to look into one more lead and…”  Sam cut himself off, glaring at the edge of Tony’s workbench.  “There’s always one more lead with him.  You know how it is.  He tells you something, something you _know_ is a lie, and you believe it because you believe in him.  Worst part is…  He believes it, too.”

That was Steve.  And that was what it meant to care about Steve.  You bought into the nobility, the valor, the innocent outlook, the faith in the inherent goodness in people, the unequivocal _goodness_.  You bought all the bullshit, hook, line, and sinker, and you didn’t even care that you knew better.  There was no choice.  That was what he did, what he inspired.  He had that power.

Sam broke what had become a lengthy and uncomfortable silence.  “He tell you what happened?”

The question took Tony aback.  Once Steve had done that.  Once he’d confided in him.  But that had been ages ago, before Barnes, right after Barnes.  Not anymore.  “No, he – well, he said he walked into a trap.”  Sam hadn’t known that, of course, but that clearly wasn’t what he was talking about.  Seeing that made Tony’s pulse race.  “What happened?”

Wilson exhaled slowly as if he was debating continuing.  Like whatever he had to say could betray someone or something (Steve and his trust, most likely).  Still, he went on.  This understanding between he and Tony permitted no less, equal on either side.  “Right before we left the States weeks ago, we tracked down an ex-SHIELD agent who Hill found out was overseeing Barnes’ captivity down in the DC.  They had Bucky in cryofreeze in the Triskelion for months before they launched Project: Insight, and this guy was supposedly in charge of bringing him out and performing–”  Wilson winced.  Disgust rippled through him in a minute shudder.  “Performing his initial programming.”

Tony knew enough of what was going on to realize what that meant.  It was hard to split Barnes from the Winter Soldier, but he really had to.  No matter what had happened, _he had to_.  And Barnes was a victim in all of this.  The world’s longest suffering POW, in a sense, who’d been tortured and twisted into what he was against his volition.  Who’d had his memories taken, his brain scrubbed of the life he’d lived by some very violent and disturbing procedures.  And those were simply the horrors of which they were aware.  There were probably more.  Sam went on.  “Apparently HYDRA had a station out on Long Island.  Not far from here…  I mean, every single time I see how close they were, how close they came…”  Sam shuddered again.  “Supposedly this guy was hiding out there.  We checked it out.  The dude was long gone, but we found all sorts of information.  Files that went all the way back to the fifties.  How they kept Bucky in line.  Missions he completed.”  Sam was wry but sick at the same time.  “You want to know the history of the Winter Soldier?”

Tony didn’t, and the tone of Sam’s voice did nothing to convince him.  They both stood stock still, Sam sniffling and looking down, Tony summoning patience from somewhere because it was more than obvious all this awful shit had hit Sam hard, too.  Hell, if dealing with Steve so damaged for the last twelve hours was this painful for Tony, how had it been for Sam?  Days on end in Europe, searching without reprieve, sleeping who knew where, endless dead ends and endless frustration, and through it all watching his friend slowly tear himself down?  Watching all these ghosts and demons pour from the past with no way to put them back?  Watching all this darkness bleed from a nicked vein that couldn’t be healed?  Maybe Sam needed to talk as much as Tony needed to listen.

He didn’t, though.  He sniffled again, nodding almost to himself.  “Anyway, there was a ton of information.  We headed back to Europe and started to hunt down what we could.  Other HYDRA installations and labs.  Fucked up stuff.  But…  Something Steve found there changed him, though.  I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

Again Sam hesitated.  “He found something in Nassau.  He had to have.  He wouldn’t tell me what.  It had to be something seriously bad.  I mean, he’s been screwed up since SHIELD went down, but…  This was more.  Everything got worse.  His nightmares.”  Tony stiffened despite himself.  He knew too well what those were like.  “He was more driven, more determined.  Blind to everything else.  Really shaken.  More reckless.  Next couple of weeks, he was looking for Barnes, but, Stark, I gotta be honest.  I think he was looking for something else, too.”

That was… surprising.  And disturbing and even a little comforting that Steve could maybe still _think_ outside of Barnes (that was selfish, but fuck if Tony cared).  “What?”

Sam gave him an incredulous look, and of course he didn’t know.  Asking was stupid.  Steve could be damn secretive when it suited him.  Hell, the whole mess in DC had gone down without Tony even knowing.  Granted, he’d been holed up in his workshop at the time, happily in the thick of inventing and pointedly ignoring _everything_ until Steve’s next trip up to Manhattan.  Back then Steve had been dividing his life between DC and New York, generally taking all of his downtime with Tony but effectively living day to day near SHIELD.  It had worked out well for both of them and allowed them to keep their relationship under wraps fairly well.  Steve had all sorts of convenient and legitimate reasons to come to the Tower, Avengers business and the like, and Tony had far fewer to come to DC.  Although, in retrospect, if he had done that more, not been such a selfish prick and made Steve come to him all the time, maybe he would have seen the shit that had been brewing in SHIELD.  He’d never asked Steve if that had been okay with him, in fact, that he’d never come to DC.  That he’d holed himself up and indulged in his own obsessions.  This arrangement, like so many other parts of what they shared, had been something into which they’d wordlessly and easily fallen.  So he hadn’t been there when Steve had been fighting against an army of HYDRA from within what they’d thought had been their allies.  JARVIS had caught the footage and told him to watch on TV.

Of course, that wasn’t just Tony’s fault.  That went back to the original point: Steve didn’t talk.  Sure, he _talked_ , but never about anything that could be even slightly construed as burdensome to anyone else.  He could be damn mechanical and flattened, reporting facts bereft on their impact on him.  He shouldered his own problems and everyone else’s problems and did it without complaint.  He fucking _took down SHIELD_ , faced his best friend back from the dead and turned assassin, without even _calling._

So Steve hiding things that upset him?  Steve fucking _sacrificing_ himself to the cause, whatever the cause, be it saving the world or stopping aliens or putting down HYDRA or hunting down Barnes?  Tony could only lie to himself so much.  And considering how damn proficient he was at that, the irony wasn’t lost on him.

Sam was still talking.  “HYDRA’s pulling out of the States.  Moving files back to Europe.  A lot of ’em.”

“Moving what where?”

Wilson sighed.  “We never figured that out.  It would make sense that it was stuff that wasn’t stored with SHIELD.  Stuff that didn’t get exposed with the data dump.  Otherwise, why bother?  Who knows why, though.”

He didn’t want to consider the obvious implication.  “Are they making another move?”

Sam shrugged.  “Your guess is as good as mine.  All I know for sure is that all of HYDRA didn’t go down with SHIELD.”  That was painfully obvious.  Strucker.  Zemo.  Faustus.  These were all names that had popped up in recent months, and though Tony hadn’t been paying much attention, he wasn’t stupid.  _Cut off one head and two more shall take its place.  Fucking assholes._   “Steve and I sent everything we found out on Long Island and in Europe back to Hill, and she’s been chewing through it.  She’ll find anything worth finding.”

Tony wasn’t sure he gave a damn.  “And something in those files made Steve do this?”  Sam gave a helpless shrug.  Normally that sort of thing would have pissed Tony off something fierce, but his mind was already gone, racing through the possibilities.  There was the obvious answer.  “Something HYDRA did to Barnes?”

Sam’s expression was cool, but underneath there was a great deal of worry.  “Or something Barnes did to someone else.  Look, Stark…”  He took a step closer, deflating, losing energy but not tension.  “Steve’s lost.  All this shit has really torn him up.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Tony snapped.  “I’ve been watching it happen piece by piece for months!”

Sam raised his hand to calm him.  “I know you know, but it’s more than just him not seeing what he’s doing to himself.  We’re way beyond that.  I don’t think he can see just how serious this is becoming.  He can’t parse Barnes from the Winter Soldier.  He can’t _see_ that Barnes isn’t who he was.  Logically he knows Barnes isn’t coming back from this, at least not the way he was.  Logically he _knows_ Barnes is a murderer and that he’s going to need to answer for that or at least face it.  But emotionally?  He can’t pull it apart.”

Again, this wasn’t exactly news.  Tony knew it, and even if he hadn’t, it was obvious.  He might not like Barnes _at all_ , but he could be impartial.  He could see that _no one else in the world_ had the emotional context of Bucky Barnes as a person that Steve did.  He could see that that wasn’t going to be easily reconciled with whoever or whatever he was now.  Extenuating circumstances.  Sympathy and compassion.  A man’s free will crushed.  When did that sort of understanding venture too far into making excuses?  When did it become rationalizing and lying and blindly protecting?

There was no answer to that.  There were no answers _period_ , it seemed, and that sort of frustration never sat well with Tony.  Sam sighed.  “I’ve been trying to figure it out for weeks, Stark.  Whatever he found or read or saw…  I don’t know.  Whatever it is, it scared him.  Changed everything.  He’s falling hard.”  Sam didn’t say that this _was_ different from all the other times, but he didn’t need to.  Tony knew it in his bones, had seen it last night.  Something _had_ changed, dragged Steve deeper, broken him more, left him in shambles.  “And I shouldn’t have left him.  I fucking _knew_ he was going to hit bottom, and I still let him convince me it was okay.”

Tony didn’t have it in him to blame Sam this time.  His brain was still back on whatever it was Steve had found.  For some reason, some _inexplicable_ reason, he felt like whatever it was that had spooked Steve…  It had to be more than bad, to make Steve desperate enough to go out on his own and stupidly throw himself into a trap just for the remote chance to find Barnes (or whatever else he was looking for).  It had to be _devastating._

“Listen, I, uh…”  Sam trailed off, battling with his emotions for just a moment.  The raw pain in his voice was enough to drag Tony back into the conversation.  “Romanoff and Barton are going to track down some scepter that went missing from SHIELD.”

“Loki’s scepter?”

“Yeah.  They think one of main HYDRA assholes has it now.  Anyway, they wanted my help, and I was going to say yes.  Figured I might as well make myself useful.”  That and the obvious attempt to put a stop of all this.  If Steve came back and found Sam gone doing something else, maybe he’d get the picture.  _Not likely._   The point was moot, anyway.  “But I’ll stay.  If you want.  You want me to?”

This wasn’t at all an implication that Tony couldn’t handle this.  Maybe before the last few months, he would’ve taken it that way, gotten his hackles all raised or some such bullshit.  Now he recognized it for what it was: Sam honestly asking him if he wanted help, not so much for Steve but for _him._

Damn decent guy.

Tony managed a smile.  “No, it’s fine.  It’s cool.  I got this.  I’ll make sure he sleeps.  When he wakes up, I’ll feed him.  Water him.  Then I’ll plant his ass on a couch and help him vegetate for a few days.  Pump him full of happy juice and–”

“Christ.  Don’t need that image.”

Tony grinned, feeling just for a second like this was all okay.  They stood in an awkward silence a couple of minutes, and he found himself just wishing now that Wilson would go.  He felt uncomfortable in his own skin at this point with the other guy here in his haven, itching to do more, looking for solace that Tony didn’t know how to give.  And out came the same bullshit.  Maybe if he kept spewing it, it’d magically become true.  “He’ll be alright.  I’ll make sure of it.”

Sam finally nodded.  If he wasn’t convinced, it wasn’t from Tony’s lack of conviction.  “Okay.  I know.  I’ll…  Yeah, I’ll head back down to DC then.”  His dejection wasn’t entirely masked, though it wasn’t from lack of trying.  Obviously he’d wanted to see Steve.  Obviously he’d hoped it’d be okay for him to stay.

And it was, really.  A part of Tony selfishly wanted Steve all to himself, because he knew how this went.  However long it took Steve to heal plus a day or two more (maybe – if they could forestall the fight with feeling good that long), and then he’d be gone.  He’d go back out there, with or without Wilson.  So Tony didn’t want to share that, not even a _second_ , and, when everything inevitably fell apart, he didn’t want a goddamn _spectator._

But this was Sam, and Sam _deserved_ better.  “Hey, no.  If you want to stay, stay.  I’m sure Steve’ll want to–”

“No, no.”  Sam smiled for the first time since he’d shown up.  “Steve’ll _not_ want to talk to me.  In fact, he’ll probably rip me a new one for coming and for telling you all this.”  Tony couldn’t help but smile, too.  That was true enough.  “Besides, there’s a reason he comes to you.”

 _Sex._   That was the immediate bitter thought.  Sex seemed to be about the only thing he and Steve could agree on lately.  As much as the patching Steve up and the fighting with Steve parts were constant, so was the sex.  Again with the addictions.  He was pretty sure, of the pair of them, this one wasn’t only his.  Still, that wasn’t what he said.  “Yeah, I’m the mother of all enablers.”  Another irony in a goddamn sea of them in this fucked-up, twisted around situation.

Sam’s grin softened.  “That’s you and me both sometimes.  But he doesn’t love me, not like he loves you.”

Just the mere mention of that word had Tony’s brain juddering in his skull.  Everything he’d been denying jolted so sharply inside that his heart skipped and his lungs seized and the workshop seemed to collapse.  He felt his eyes widen, felt cold like the blood was draining from his face and congealing in his veins.  There was no hiding his reaction from Sam.  And Sam looked appropriately uncomfortable.  “I’m… guessing he’s never told you that.”

No.  That went without saying.  It also went without saying Tony couldn’t figure out what he was feeling, let alone what he should be feeling, and another moment of interminable discomfort struggled away like a rowboat paddling against an ocean riptide.  “He… he told you that?”  The question came out soft, bitter with betrayal as much as it was tentative with hope.

“Not in so many words, no.”  Sam was choosing his words carefully, because there was no hiding how much the air between them had suddenly changed.  “But he’s not as good at hiding things as he thinks he is.”

Tony had to give a rough laugh at that because, no, Steve wasn’t.  Except for this, apparently.  Well, that wasn’t entirely fair.  Tony had _known_ on some level.  But he’d been denying that, too.  Unrequited pining was easier to handle in some ways than having his feelings returned, than having _any_ of this be as real and meaningful as he really wanted it to be.  Unrequited pining validated his own opinions of himself, as low as they could be sometimes.  And unrequited pining had escape clauses built into it.  _It’s impossible.  He deserves better.  He can’t love me back.  He’ll find someone else.  He’ll move on._   _It’s not meant to be._ Again with the self-deprecating bullshit, but it was true.  Acknowledging that Steve felt as much for him as he did for Steve would make it all something Tony had to do more than fix.  He had to protect it and do right by it and traditionally he hadn’t done well with that kind of responsibility. 

He was still reeling with that when Sam came even closer.  “Tony.”  His brown eyes were nothing but open and honest.  “I could tell back in DC that he had feelings for someone.  I gotta say at the time I was surprised it was you.  Now…”  He sighed.  “I know why he needs you.  You’re not as much of an enabler as you think.”

Tony’s patience for this was wearing.  “What the hell does that mean?”

Sam didn’t react by getting angry.  _Patience of a saint._   “I mean, I think there’s a part of him that wants you to find a way to make him stop.  He can’t bring himself to quit, but…  He’s in love with you.  He trusts you.  He trusts you to help him.  And he knows you won’t hate–”  Sam gave up on his own thought.  “I don’t know.  Talking out of desperation here.  Probably looking for crazy shit that’s not there.”

Desperate, maybe.  But crazy?  Tony didn’t think so.  His empty, meaningless promises to himself suddenly didn’t seem so empty or meaningless.  _He wants me to save him._

Tony was far gone with that, so another quiet moment escaped without his noticing.  Next thing he registered, Sam was grasping his shoulder.  Even when Steve had been on life support after SHIELD had fallen, they’d never touched really.  Not like this.  Not like friends.  There was nothing but fond appraisal in his eyes – no.  That wasn’t quite true.  That was there, of course.  But there was also a solemn plea: _fix him._   Maybe Sam hadn’t come here to say this; Tony still wasn’t sure what he’d wanted.  But this was what was coming out strong.  _Fix him._ “Thanks, Tony.”

Preemptive gratitude.  Probably based on the assumption that he could do what Sam clearly thought he could.  Tony couldn’t say anything other than a throaty, “Okay.”

“Okay.”  Sam nodded, embarrassed and shaken himself.  He backed away.  “I’ll, uh…  Yeah, I’ll go back to DC.  See if I can help Hill or go scepter hunting with Romanoff.  Like I said.  Do something useful.”

“Right.”  He felt like he needed to say more.  The same bullshit.  “I’ll take care of him.” 

“Okay.  I’ll be in touch.”  That wasn’t the usual empty valediction, the sort of lackadaisical promise to call back if and when one had the time or interest.  This was a solemn oath, and Tony knew Sam meant it.  He didn’t say anything more, slipping out of Tony’s workshop before disappearing down the hall.  JARVIS would help him find his way out. 

Tony was motionless in the middle of the room.  He felt closed in, even though the space was huge and airy.  And things seemed alien and not quite right, even though it was all his stuff – his tools and his projects and his bots and his half-finished inventions – and it was all where he’d left it.  It felt different, different shading and different lines, like the world was off-kilter and he was the only one capable of perceiving that.  His heart was racing, though he couldn’t figure out why.  Sam hadn’t told him anything he hadn’t already known.  _Steve’s lost.  Steve’s falling hard.  Steve loves me._ But at the same time, it was all new, like the details of a picture he’d looked at before but hadn’t _seen_.  Like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that were only now fitting right.  Like lines of code suddenly coming together to produce an algorithm whose power was clear but whose purpose was still uncertain.  He was waxing poetic, but it was true.  Sam had told him things had just hadn’t noticed before.  _Steve wants me to save him._

_Steve’s here because he thinks I can fix this._

Never mind that he had no goddamn clue how to do that.  “JARVIS?”

JARVIS anticipated what he was asking.  He was awesome like that.  “Captain Rogers has not stirred, sir.”

That was comforting, Tony supposed.  Every part of him fairly well ached to go back up to the penthouse and sleep, sleep with Steve right there next to him, but he sighed and tried to think.  “What was it Steve said last night?  Something about a guy named Lukin?”

“Yes.  He was tracking this man under the belief that he had some sort of connection to the Winter Soldier.”

He’d been trying so damn hard not to care about any of this.  Not to get involved in Hill’s efforts to track down the things SHIELD had let fall into the hands of evil or Romanoff’s task to ferret out the remainder of HYDRA or Steve’s quest to find Barnes.  He’d ignored it, even though he knew they could use his efforts and his tech.  Maybe that hadn’t been very Avenger-like, but he was too bitter about it all – about Steve on a goddamn ventilator being pumped full of blood because he’d lost too much of it into a cold and unforgiving river – to care.  Plus, and this was stupid, but somehow acknowledging that all this shit was going on with the others would make it real.  Like he could hide in the Tower and not give a rat’s ass and that would make it all go away.  Real mature.

Now he was regretting it.  And, of course, there was that familiar tingle in the back of his mind, flitting across his thoughts.  Curiosity.  “I don’t spose we have any information on this guy.”

“Unfortunately not much,” JARVIS confirmed.  “A cursory search of the SHIELD data dump yields little in terms of matching files, but my search parameters are limited given we know so little.  It is also likely that his biodata will be obfuscated if he is among HYDRA’s elite.  It will take some time to run a more thorough analysis.”

“How long?”

“Two days, six hours, and thirty-three minutes, assuming the search is contained to the data dump.”  So much for quick answers.  The time estimation sounded about right, though, given the size of data dump.  SHIELD’s collapse had flooded the internet with exabytes of information; sifting through all that was going to be a hefty task, particularly when they didn’t know exactly for what they were looking.  “If leads arise that require other sources, it could be longer.”

Tony hesitated.  Normally he didn’t do that when it came to learning and investigating and understanding.  He could appreciate now, though, why Sam had felt the way he had about being candid about Steve’s mindset.  This felt akin to sticking his nose where it didn’t belong and a little too close to betrayal for his comfort.  “Get started.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any way you can get your hands on what Steve and Sam sent Hill, is there?”

“I rather doubt it, unless you are willing to call her.  Even if the files are electronic, which seems unlikely given their age, I have no way of accessing Deputy Director Hill’s personal databases without breaching your contract with her.  Despite your ownership of the storage, breaking and entering seems to be in poor taste.”  JARVIS could be so damn annoying when he wanted to be with his insistence on propriety and legal behavior.  Hill was running her op out of Stark Industries and had been since SHIELD had gone down, but as part of their agreement, she was maintaining her own section of his mainframe.  With Steve the way he was and everything falling apart everywhere, the Avengers were definitely in limbo.  SHIELD used to call their shots, and when SHIELD didn’t (or said decisions reeked of ulterior motives), Captain America called their shots.  Both of them were decidedly out of commission at the moment, and unsurprisingly, Hill hadn’t been terribly comfortable with Tony making the big choices.  So that meant she had half a team (essentially Barton and Romanoff) and was fairly well drowning out there by herself.  Thor was gone, dividing himself between Asgard and Jane Foster.  Bruce was around but as always reluctant to participate.  World security was pretty much dangling by a thread, and Hill was floundering without help (not complaining or asking for help, of course, but floundering all the same).  Tony had thought at the time it’d be better to have whatever she was doing under his auspices, both so he could have an in and to keep her efforts safe.

Some in.  Maybe if he hadn’t been such a selfish asshole before, he’d know more now, be better equipped now, to help.

Then again, it was back to the same, old circular reasoning.  This wasn’t the first time he’d considered stepping in.  Flat-out helping Steve find Barnes would put an end to this, too.  With the computer power he had at his hands, he could certainly and directly make this easier.  And he’d offered once (just once) in the beginning to come with, bring Iron Man, help fight the HYDRA thugs Sam and Steve kept finding.  Steve had said no, said he couldn’t drag Tony into this.  And Tony had given up right away because he’d make that offer against his better judgment anyway.  It was bullshit cowardice, but the unknown of what would happen _next_ if they actually managed to bring Barnes back had dissuaded him from doing anything more.  That and the sense of defeat and surrender to this insanity.  Talk about enabling.

This wasn’t just enabling, though.  This was him wanting to know.  And he always had a hard time denying himself that.  Everything about this pissed him off.  He didn’t know if Sam meant for it to be comforting, telling him that Steve loved him.  It was, but it wasn’t.  “J, Steve?”

“Captain Rogers remains sleeping.  Nothing has changed since you asked forty-eight seconds ago.”

For some stupid reason, that snapped him from his unhappiness and made him smile.  “Alright, bring up the stuff Pepper needs.  Let’s bang it out.”

It took another two hours to polish off the reactor specifications.  He went above and beyond, adding some documentation to help the idiots in R&D just because it felt decent to do it.  The workshop was oddly quiet as he and JARVIS worked through it, bereft of the heavy blast of music.  As they worked, Tony’s mind drifted.  Those pleasant memories again.  _“Someone needs to educate you.  Seriously.  Your taste in music is shit.”_

_“Language.”_

He remembered the laugh that had escaped his lips as he’d looked up from Iron Man’s boot on his workbench to appraise Steve where he lounged on the old, ratty couch on the other side of the room.  The sofa really needed to be replaced; some of the cushions were so worn the batting was peeking out through the red fabric (and the fabric itself was hardly even red anymore.  He was pretty sure at one point it had been nice and soft and new.  Not it was almost brown it was so faded and strained).  It had been in his workshop for forever, it seemed, first back in Malibu but he’d moved it to the Tower shortly after the Avengers had formed.  He hadn’t much used it since then, even though he’d once spent long hours on it, drinking or sleeping or eating but always thinking.  It seemed stupid to move such a worn down piece of crap all the way across the country, but he hadn’t thought twice.  It was almost like he’d known the couch was going to be repurposed, assumed by someone else.  Trite nonsense, but it was true.

And he could see it now.  Steve laying there, relaxed, pliant, all that height and strength loose and unguarded.  He’d been hunched over his sketchbook, a really nice one.  One of the ones Tony had bought him.  Leather cover, spiral bound, meant to be a diary of inspirations and moments far more than a simple pad of doodles.  Tony had been trying to catch a glimpse of what he’d been drawing so intently all afternoon, but it hadn’t been happening.  Instead he’d looked back down, feeling high it was so nice.  _“Music clears my head.  Helps me think.  Helps me get stuff done.”_

 _“Don’t see how,”_ Steve had said, his voice a clear, simple register in Tony’s mind that was music all its own.  _“It’s so damn noisy.  They’re screaming all the time.”_

_“Singing.”_

_“Screaming.”_

_“There is no world where ‘Stairway to Heaven’ isn’t a classic.  You need to clean your ears, grandpa.”_

The corner of Steve’s mouth had twisted up in a smile, that sneaky little grin he always had when he was teasing him.  He’d been intent on his drawing, the scratching of his charcoal pencil over the fine paper somehow loud and distinct despite the guitar and Robert Plant’s shrieking and Tony’s own banging as he worked on the boot’s thrusters.  That soft scratching had been music, too.  And Steve’s breathing.  And art, the way he had been lying there on a couch that was a little too small for his large frame, dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, of all things.  So perfect and peaceful.  _“The guy’s whining all the time.”_   Steve gave a high-pitched impression, wailing along to the faster-tempo section of the song wildly off-key, and Tony couldn’t help another laugh, even if it was sacrilegious to make fun of this masterpiece. _“And I can’t understand anything he’s saying.  Something about a hedgerow?  Who sings about a hedge – hey, no, Tony!  Give it back!”_

It took some work (and experience) to sneak up on a super soldier, but Tony was fast and evil when he wanted to be.  He had darted away from his bench, crossing the room on quiet bare feet, and he’d gone right for the ribs.  He’d tickled hard until Steve was laughing and sputtering before snatching the sketchbook out of his hands.  He’d only managed a quick glance – sooty eyes narrowed in concentration, the outline of arms astride a grease-streaked wife-beater, lush locks of dark hair, lips curled in a smile, his lips, his arms, his hair, _his eyes_ – before Steve yanked it back.  He’d been so shocked, so touched by what he’d seen – _himself as Steve_ _saw him_ – that he’d gone with the book, gone onto the couch, flopped on top of Steve and let Steve rub those huge hands up his under his wife-beater.  _“You ass.”_

He could almost taste that warmth again, feel the grin that split his face, feel the way his heart had pounded with something he’d never quite experienced before.  He should have said that.  That was all he could think now.  _I should have said that.  I should have told him I love him.  Maybe he wouldn’t have left if I hadn’t been such a fucking coward.  Maybe he would have picked me.  Maybe maybe maybe–_

But he hadn’t said that.  He hadn’t said anything that nice or meaningful or pure.  He’d hid behind sex and flirting.  _“You wanna draw that?  My ass?”_

Steve had laughed and wriggled under Tony’s weight to get his sketchbook out of the way.  _“Maybe.  I do like it.”_

_“You worship it.”_

_“Modest.”_ What had started as a playful peck turned into a deeper kiss, turned into Steve’s hands on his waist and Tony devouring his mouth, turned into the sketchbook falling forgotten to the floor and opening right to the drawing Steve had tried to hide, turned into _nothing_ getting done…

_He’s in love with you._

“Sir.  The specifications are complete.”  JARVIS’ announcement pulled him from the memory.  The echo of Steve’s laugh and the warmth of his touch were agonizingly slow to fade, and when he blinked, he saw the couch again, only it was empty and dark and lonely.  He’d thought once or twice about throwing it away these last couple of months when the bitterness had mounted and the pain had been sharp.  Suddenly he was glad he hadn’t.  Steve liked it, even if it was beat to all hell.  “Shall I send them to Miss Potts?”

Tony broke from his daze.  “Yeah.  I’m going back upstairs.  Order some of that Thai food Steve likes.  I’m sure he’ll wake up hungry.”

“Right away.  I will have security bring it up.”

“Thanks.”  JARVIS shut everything down without instruction as Tony headed to the doors.  He paused to give DUM-E a little pat, feeling rotten anew for being harsh and unsupportive earlier.  But he was more assured himself and calmer, so it was easier to manage a smile.  DUM-E chirped, waving his arm in a happy goodbye, and Tony went on his way, surprisingly contented.

It didn’t take long for it all to go to hell again.  He barely had one foot in the elevator when JARVIS’ voice rang out in alarm.  “Sir, Captain Rogers is distressed.”

Tony went cold.  “What?”

“He is having some sort of nightmare.  I do not believe he knows where he is.”

“Get me up there!”

The elevator sped to the penthouse, much faster than was normally acceptable.  It wasn’t far to go, either, but those few seconds felt infinite.  The lift doors couldn’t open fast enough; Tony was squeezing through the gap, stumbling when his foot caught.  Then he was barreling into the suite.

It was exactly as he’d left it that morning: quiet, dark, and empty.  Tony struggled to catch his breath, to hear about the pounding of his heart.  “Steve?”  There was no answer, and everything was still.  “JARVIS, lights.”  Illumination, gentle and unthreatening, spread from the lamps and fixtures in the suite.  Tony swallowed down the tightness in his throat, glancing around.  “Steve?  You here?”  Again, nothing.  He walked through the living room, down the hallways, listening and looking and trying not to be afraid.  He was just about to ask JARVIS where Steve was when he heard a muffled cry from the bedroom.  Jerking into a run, he gave up on being hesitant and burst inside.  “Steve!”

Steve whirled from where he was standing by the bed.  It was obvious he’d just gotten up, so recently in fact that the creases from the sheets and pillow case were still evident on his cheek and hand.  He was sweaty, flushed, and extremely rumpled.  His hair was sticking up every which way.  He wasn’t quite standing straight, again like he couldn’t bear to.  And his eyes were absolutely wild, blown black and hazy.  “Where is he?”

Tony had never seen Steve look like this before.  That hint of the caged, beaten animal that he’d seen last night, the feral, frightened dog backed into a corner…  This was worse.  _Much worse._   “Where’s who, Steve?”

“Bucky,” Steve practically snarled.  As hurt as he was, there was tension in his muscles beneath the sweats.  Tension and a threat.  His glare was ferocious, and he mistook Tony’s surprise for a lack of understanding.  “Bucky Barnes.  Sergeant James Barnes.  I know he’s here.  I know you have him.”

This was bad.  Steve was clearly out of his head.  A waking nightmare or a hallucination.  Tony was trapped between horror and worry, neither of which terribly helpful.  It didn’t make sense.  With the serum, he typically couldn’t get sucked into delirium like this, but he definitely was with his eyes so bright and glazed and his cheeks so red and the way he was bent and breathing in a labored panting.  The serum didn’t let him get sick, but that sure as shit looked like what was happening, and that could only mean something _really bad._

The why of it was irrelevant right now.  He needed to get Steve cognizant and aware again.  Talk him down.  “Sir,” JARVIS called.  In the moment of taut silence, his tentative intrusion was booming.  “Shall I summon the suit?”

That was probably a good idea because if that hateful, desperate glint in Steve’s eyes was any indication, this could get ugly quick.  Steve could kill him without even trying, without even meaning to.  He was much stronger than Tony, much faster and a much better combatant.  Tony had seen many times what Steve could do against ordinary opponents.  Without Iron Man, this was unbelievably dangerous, and Tony backed up unwittingly.  “No.”

“Sir–”

 _“No.”_  Any sudden move, even a defensive one, might set Steve off.  He didn’t think the suit could get here faster than Steve could cross these few paltry feet, anyway.  Tony drew a deep breath, struggling to stay calm.  He needed to stay calm.  “Steve, it’s me.”

“Where’s Bucky?” Steve seethed again.  _“Where is he?”_

“Bucky’s not here,” Tony replied.

Steve’s eyes flashed.  “You’re lyin’.  You’re lyin’!”

“No, Steve–”

“Where the hell is he?”  Steve was crossing the bedroom, coming at him with rage in his eyes, and Tony thought he was the one who had to be having the waking nightmare because this was impossible.  _Impossible._   Steve couldn’t look this way.  This damaged and unhinged and completely _out of control._   Tony couldn’t fathom ever being afraid of Captain America, _of Captain America_ , but he was.  “What’re you doin’ to him?  You goddamn son of a bitch!  HYDRA bastards.  What’re you doing?”  His hands were balled into shaking fists at his sides, and he was practically looming.

Tony raised his own hands in submission.  “Steve, listen to me.  Listen.  Focus, okay?  Wherever you think you are, you’re not.  You’re in the Tower.  No one is going to hurt Bucky!”

“You turned him–”

“No, Steve!”

“You made him…  I’ll fucking–”  His voice escalated into a cry, and the next thing Tony knew, Steve’s fist was flying toward him.  He was so weak and off-kilter that he missed – _he missed_ – but Tony yelped and ducked anyway, stumbling and staggering out of Steve’s path.  Steve wavered on his feet but followed.  “You know what you made him do?  Huh?  You know what he–”

“Sir!” JARVIS cried.

“No!”  Tony scrambled away again, and Steve’s fist went into the wall instead of his head.  The sound of the sheetrock breaking was thunderous.  _Jesus fucking Christ someone help me!_   “Steve, stop!  Listen to me!  Steve–”

“You’re monsters,” Steve gasped, pulling his hand free.  It was covered in drywall dust.  “All of you!  Fucking monsters.  You had no right.  You–”  He raised his hand again, and Tony hit the edge of his dresser.  Trapped, he dropped down to his knees, bringing his hands up to cover his head and he knew JARVIS was calling Iron Man and that couldn’t happen because if this escalated that far one of them was going to get hurt or worse and _that_ _couldn’t happen._   “Let him go!  You hear me?  Take me if you want, but _let him go!_ ”

“Steve, Jesus, _stop!_   Stop!”  Steve towered over him, eyes wild, poised to kill, and Tony had no doubt _he would_.  “Please!  _Please!  It’s Tony!”_

That got through.  Steve’s eyes went wide, filling with horror and dawning realization, and he staggered back and stumbled until he went down onto his knees.  He curled in on himself, moaning and gasping.  “Oh, God…  Oh, God.”

The room went silent.  Tony couldn’t gather himself, barely breathing, not daring to move.  Steve gave a harsh, heavy cough, one wrapped up in a sob, and Tony swallowed through an aching throat.  “Steve,” he whispered, crawling closer.  “Steve.”  Iron Man was just outside the bedroom door, standing sentry, glaring malevolently.  Tony waved the armor away.  _Stay back.  Not now_.  He forced himself to be calm and tender despite the moments before, forced himself not to be afraid.  He stopped beside Steve, close enough to touch him but not chancing that yet.  The rage had faded, at least, but Tony couldn’t be sure.  Not yet.  “It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not!”

He stayed still, kept this easy.  “Steve, baby, listen to me.  Look at me.  Come on.” 

Steve lifted his head.  Tears flooded his eyes.  The blue orbs were fever bright.  His face was flushed rosy, and he was breathing in labored, shallow pants.  “Just tell me where he is,” he pleaded, weeping piteously.  “I gotta find him.  Gotta find him.  It’s my fault!”

“No, no,” Tony comforted.  “No.  It’s not.  And you don’t need to do anything.”

Steve closed his eyes, swallowing so hard his Adam’s apple lurched, and he wavered on his knees.  Now Tony did move, sliding forward quickly to catch him as he slumped.  Just like that, all the frantic energy, all the fear and paranoia and mania, was gone, leaving behind a shaking shell.  And the second Tony touched Steve’s skin, he realized he was _burning._   “Oh, Jesus…”

“Tony…”

“I’m here,” Tony gasped, mind whirling in panic.  He shook his head in horror as he tucked Steve against him, threading his hand through Steve’s hair.  “I’m here.  It’s gonna be okay.”

“You don’t know what he did,” Steve whimpered again.  “You don’t know, Tony.”

“Not sure that I care right now,” Tony admitted.  “Steve, I gotta call someone.  This is–”

“Tony,” Steve whimpered.  “Tony, please…”  His tucked his face into Tony’s neck, and Tony winced at how hot he was.  _“I just want you.”_   That was what Steve had said yesterday.  As Tony put his arms around him, though, felt him shivering and whimpering and suffering with whatever had done this to him, with how _sick_ he was, he knew he wasn’t going to be enough.  He could accept that now.  Had to.  All that bravado he’d felt before, that he’d spouted off to Romanoff and Wilson, that he’d promised _himself…_ Bullshit.

He dropped a kiss into Steve’s hair and prayed he was doing the right thing.  “JARVIS, put me through to Banner.  Right now!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tony.” Steve curled into himself, collapsed really, and despite how big and long he was, he seemed young and small.  _Terrified._   “’m sorry.  So sorry.  Hurt you.”

“Don’t apologize,” Tony replied.  He shut his eyes tight and held Steve tighter.  “Don’t.  Just stay with me, okay?  Whatever’s wrong, we can make it better.”

“Can’t find him,” Steve moaned again, his breath a hot, damp blast against Tony’s throat.  “Can’t fix him.”

 _To hell with him._   “Doesn’t matter,” Tony swore.  _We don’t need him to fix you._


	3. Chapter 3

_“Like two strangers turning into dust…_  
_Till my hand shook with the way I fear.”_  
– Mazzy Star, “Into Dust”

 

It was going to take Bruce almost two hours to get to the city.  _Two hours._

It might as well have been two years for how in control Tony felt.  He was practically vibrating with fear, like it was some sort of ungrounded, unbalanced energy tingling in his skin and pulsing in his blood and throbbing in his bones.  _Aching_ in his heart.

“Take it easy,” he said again, reaching to lay his hand on Steve’s forehead again.  No matter how often he checked (which was pretty damn often – obsessively so), his fever didn’t get any lower.  Of course, he didn’t trust this ridiculous, primitive method, so he’d run down to the medical ward to grab _another_ case full of supplies, including a high-tech thermometer that was still encased in shrink-wrap for fuck’s sake, before running back up to the penthouse as fast as he possibly could.  He used that again, too, swiping it across Steve’s brow.  _104._   “Fuck.”

“Tony?” Steve whispered.  He blinked, eyes glassy and unfocused.

“Yeah.”  Tony tossed the thermometer back on the bedside table, where it hit a few bottles of water and some medications before clunking to the carpet.  “Fuck!”

_“Tony.”_

He tried to gather himself.  He tried hard, but it _was_ hard.  It was hard because he had no clue what he was doing now.  Normally that didn’t bother him too much; he could blunder through things with the best of them, clumsy and causing collateral damage maybe but getting the job done in the end.  Now…  He didn’t know how to make this better.  He hadn’t since getting Steve back into his bed.  He’d gone down and gotten more stuff and fairly well floundered around like a chicken with its head cut off since.  At one point during this blur of panic, he’d thought to check Steve’s wounds.  He’d helped the other man out of the sweatshirt to get a look at the bandages.  A lot of them were stained with dried red, but as he’d unwound them and looked beneath, he hadn’t seen any obvious signs of infection.  Steve’s injuries weren’t healing like he’d expect, though.  Not much healing was going on at all, in fact, which was pretty damn worrying.  When he really thought about, Steve wandering into the Tower last night like a victim of the Walking Dead should have set off more alarm bells than it had.  Sure, Steve had arrived all beaten up lots of times, but if he’d flown in from Prague like he said, then that was a solid eleven-hour flight plus at least one stop, assuming he’d gotten on a plane right away.  That meant his injuries were _at least_ twelve hours old, probably more than that.  Maybe significantly more than that.  Some of these definitely were, aged bruises and scabs covering older lacerations.  And the fresh wounds…  Well, aside from some healing around the area where he’d been struck with the buckshot, they still looked _fresh._   Even now.  _Another_ twelve hours later.  He knew he was getting ahead of himself, panicking because he was so damn frightened, but he couldn’t help it.  His brain went one place, and it went there fast.

_Something’s wrong with the serum._

“Tony,” Steve mumbled.  He closed his eyes again, licking dried, cracked lips.  “Sorry.”

Tony shook himself free of his thoughts.  He forced himself to focus, to do something more practical than uselessly freaking out.  “Shut up.”  That probably wasn’t more practical or useful or anything, but he couldn’t stand listening to Steve apologize one more time.  After Tony had talked him down earlier, Steve had drifted a lot.  At least he’d come back to himself enough to recognize where he was and that Tony wasn’t some sort of HYDRA demon tormenting Barnes, but he hadn’t exactly been with it, either.  He was hazy, delirious, and out of his mind and Tony could hardly stand it.  This was Steve, and Steve wasn’t _ever_ supposed to be like this.  And he kept apologizing, mumbling “sorry” and “so sorry” and “really sorry” over and over again probably because he couldn’t remember having said it.  It never ceased to amaze him how Steve could be such an asshole when it suited him.  When they were fighting, nothing Tony said seemed to matter at all, and he was going to do what he wanted and to hell with the consequences.  On the other hand, he could be _this._   This poor kid in his bed, wracked with chills and fucking burning up and whispering penance…  He couldn’t take it.  “Just shut up.”

Steve grimaced.  He shook his head a little, frowning, seemingly confused.  “Mucked it all up,” he whispered.  Tony didn’t know to what he was referring now.  Maybe he was talking about ending up like this?  Not listening every other time he’d gone off to find Barnes and gotten the shit kicked out of him?  Causing Tony all this trouble?  Nearly _killing_ Tony before?  Tony didn’t know, and he didn’t want to know.  He just wanted Steve better.

Which was why he’d called Bruce.  Bruce would know what to do.  He’d tried getting a hold of Wilson shortly after it became blatantly obvious that Steve was not just hurt but sick, but the other man had probably already boarded his flight back down to DC because he hadn’t answered his phone.  Tony should have left a message and should have sent a ton of texts and should have _tried again_ , but he hadn’t.  And he probably should have called Romanoff, but he hadn’t done that, either.  It was so stupid and pathetic and damn well petty, but he’d told them both he could handle this.  Getting their help very definitely indicated _he couldn’t_ , which in his mind was akin to admitting he wasn’t good enough for Steve (who loved him – that was fucking him up even more than he was already fucked up), just like Natasha thought and Wilson maybe feared but was too nice to say.  So that was out of the question.  What could they do, anyway?  Nothing more than the same ineffective stuff Tony himself was doing.  Steve was sick when he shouldn’t be able to get sick.  Ergo, there was something wrong with the serum.  Ergo, they needed Bruce, who was the closest thing they had to an expert on Erskine’s work and a doctor.  His logic was flawless.

Except that left him dealing with all of this alone, and he’d never felt so inadequate.  Steve was shivering hard enough that he shook the bed, but he was so hot that he couldn’t stand having the covers on him.  Tony watched him a moment, scared out of his goddamn mind, before reaching for Steve’s hand and grabbing it tight.  Steve shuddered, curling a little around his midsection.  He was in pain, a lot of it.  This was raw and open, worse than every other time, even worse than those rough first couple of days home from the hospital after Barnes had shot him and left him on the shores of the Potomac.  This was like a man bleeding to death in front of him, slowly but surely, and he had no idea how to stop it.  “What can I do?”

Steve didn’t answer, mumbling something incomprehensible before closing his eyes again and slipping back into a haze of delirium and sleep.  JARVIS did, though.  “Sir, perhaps you can attempt to bring down his fever.”

“Did you miss the gallon of stuff I just gave him?”  A gallon was an exaggeration but not by much.  Not long ago Tony had practically flooded Steve with every antibiotic and antipyretic medication he could find down in the ward.  Injection after injection.  None of it would work, and he knew that, but his desperation was stronger than logic.  And Steve had groaned and flinched through it all, making it that much worse.  He was wasting his time and hurting Steve more and _goddamn it all to hell._  

“I meant a more palliative approach.  Cool washcloths, perhaps, or a warm bath, though getting him into the tub may be difficult.”  Difficult but not impossible.  JARVIS had refused to send Iron Man away completely, and the armor was standing as a sentry in the hallway outside.  In the suit, Tony could move Steve if he had to.  If he really had to.  “I suggest compresses as a first course, in addition to cool drinks.  He is likely dehydrated.”

All of that made sense, and Tony felt like a moron for not thinking of it.  Then again, he’d never cared for someone sick like this before.  And, to be fair, no one had ever really taken care of him when he’d been sick, either.  He had vague memories of his mother holding him and singing to him once or twice.  He’d felt miserable, and she’d been a soothing balm in every way imaginable.  But when he’d been older?  A teenager and an adult?  He’d always just toughed it out alone.  Story of his fucking life.

He lifted Steve’s hand and brushed a kiss over his bruised knuckles.  “I’ll be right back.”  Then he went out to the kitchen in the penthouse, grabbing a bowl from the cabinets.  He knocked a plate off the stack because his hands were clumsy and shaking, and the sound of it striking the tiled floor was shocking.  It shattered, of course, sending porcelain pieces scattering everywhere.  For a moment he just stared, unable to make sense of it.  Trembling harder, he walked away.  Then he came back.  “Damn it.”  It took longer than it should have, gathering up all the mess, but he could feel himself losing it.  What the hell was the matter with him?  He was leaping to conclusions – _HYDRA did something to Steve to screw up the serum and he’s hiding it from me why does he always fucking lie to me?_ – and he knew it but he couldn’t stop himself.  When the hell had he gotten so weak like this?  He’d faced down his own death less jittery and uncertain.

He knew why.  He’d lost Pepper in a way.  And now he was losing Steve.  Had been for _months_.  This was just the end of it, the thing he hadn’t let himself see before.  He loved Steve, and Steve loved him, and Steve wanted him to find a way to make him stop, so it was his fault because _he_ _hadn’t stopped it._

Tony choked on a sob, anger biting through him like the sharp shards nicking his skin.  He knelt there, surrounded by a stupid broken plate and struggling not to lose it completely.  He wasn’t going to.  Not now.  A few deep breaths had him calmer, more functional, with his mind clearer (or at least more focused on something useful, like cleaning this up and getting what he came for).  He picked up the mess and tossed it into the trash and grabbed a few bottles of water before running back toward the bedroom.  Steve hadn’t moved (of course – he had to check, though).  Racing into the bathroom, he ignored the mess _still_ there from last night and filled the bowl with cool water.  He found a few clean washcloths in the linen closet and went back.

“Alright,” he said, more to himself than to Steve, who was breathing shallowly and blinking listlessly.  Tony sat on the bed beside him, making room on the table for the bowl.  “Alright, we got this.”  He dunked a cloth before wringing it out.  He brushed Steve’s hair back, taking a second to check his fever yet again.  Still burning hot to the touch.  He laid the cloth there.  “Get this fever down…  You’ll feel better.”  He took another cloth, wet it, and wiped down Steve’s flushed cheeks.  Then he set the cloth on Steve’s chest, right in the dip where his neck met his collar bones.  Steve jerked and shivered.  “Too cold?”

“N-no,” Steve whispered.  “’s okay.”

Comforted by that, Tony wet a few more and carefully positioned them on Steve’s skin around his injuries.  Steve groaned when he wiped his face again.  “Yeah, you always liked these towels.  At least you did until you found out how much money they cost.  Then you gave me shit.”

Steve grunted again.  “Still… still used ’em, though, didn’t I?”

Tony couldn’t help a bit of a smile.  “Yeah.  Because you’re a jerk who says nice things are a luxury rather than a necessity but really likes having premium Egyptian cotton pampering your ass when you get out of the shower.  You really wanna dry yourself off with sandpaper?  Go ahead.”  Steve made a sound that maybe was meant to be a laugh but really came out as a whimper.  Tony frowned, gently rubbing at Steve’s muscles where he could.  They were knotted and trembling in pain.  “Easy…”

“Hurts,” Steve admitted.

“Where?”

“’vrywhere.”  His hands went to his belly again, though, where the skin was mottled black and blue and his side was all messed up from the buckshot.  “Hurts a lot.”

If that wasn’t terrifying, Tony didn’t know what was.  That made everything come to the surface again.  “Are you sure they didn’t do something to you?  Get their hands on you?”  This wasn’t the first time he’d asked since Steve had attacked him.  Before Steve had just been too out of it to give much of an answer.  “Did they do something to you?  Come on, Steve.”  His voice was taut with anger and panic, and Steve squirmed underneath him, though whether from pain or discomfort at being questioned, Tony didn’t know.  He didn’t care.  He couldn’t help if Steve didn’t tell him the truth.  “I need to know!  I know you think it’s the right thing to shoulder all this bullshit on your own, but that’s fucking stupid, and you’re sick and something’s wrong and you _have_ to be honest with me because…”  He didn’t finish.  His voice cracked and made it impossible.

“They – they didn’t,” Steve gasped.  He weakly, almost blindly, reached for Tony.

Tony wanted to fucking _hit_ something as he grabbed Steve’s hand.  “Easy.  Here.”  He grabbed for one of the water bottles, unscrewed the top, and helped Steve take a drink.  Once Steve started, he didn’t seem to be able to stop himself, sucking the liquid down in huge gulps.  The bottle was empty before either of them realized it, and Steve fell back into the pillows, coughing and even choking.  “Easy!  They didn’t?”  Steve shook his head, still gasping.  “Did you get exposed to anything?  Black out even for a second?”

 _Drugs._ The thought came fast and harsh.  He knew it had to be right.  _Some new weapon.  Something to damage or inhibit the serum?_   The possibilities were sadly endless, and HYDRA’s evil knew no bounds.  Whatever they’d done to Steve, it had to be recent.  Wilson would have said something otherwise.  Then again, Sam and Steve had been crawling through HYDRA hellholes for weeks.  There’d been plenty of opportunity for this Lukin guy or Strucker or whoever they’d run into to do something to Steve, something subtle and with a delayed reaction maybe.  And maybe Sam hadn’t seen it or thought to mention it or Steve could have lied to him.  Lying had such ugly connotation, and it was purposeful.  No matter how angry he was at Steve, he didn’t think Steve was doing this to hurt him intentionally.  Probably the opposite, in fact.  That made him even more frustrated.  “There had to be something, Steve.  Think!”

“Don’t know.  I just…  I knew it was a setup.  Knew it.  Went in anyway.  No Bucky.”  _Fucking Barnes._   If Tony could, he’d scrub that bastard from Steve’s mind.  Steve shuddered through a breath.  “Got trapped.  Shot.  Don’t remember.  Don’t think so.”  _Bioweapon.  Something specifically designed to take down Captain America.  It could have been in one of those bullets or…_  

Maybe even the buckshot.  That might explain the weird choice of weaponry.  Maybe those pellets hadn’t just been pellets.  Christ, he hadn’t even considered–

“Tony?”

“What?”

Steve licked his lips again.  Tony could practically tell what he was going to say before he said it, and he didn’t want to hear it.  “It’ll be okay.”

Tipping his head back, he blinked away the burn of tears again.  How many times had he been told that?  _“It’s fine, Tony.  I can do this, Tony.  It’ll be okay, Tony.  I’ll find him and bring him back and everything’s going to be okay.”_ Too many times.  He couldn’t stand it again.  It wasn’t going to be okay.  Not as long as this kept happening.  _This_ was how far things had gone, with the impossible, with Steve poisoned or worse, sick in his bed and too weak to do much more than breathe and burn.  Still, despite how much he wanted to rail and argue, it was pointless.  He had so many times before, but it felt wrong to now, with Steve staring at him with fever-bright blue eyes that made him seem young and overly earnest.  “Sure.”  And then he went back to wiping Steve down with renewed vigor.  Staying still was too awful, so he wet more washcloths and laid them over Steve’s pecs and abs and working up and down his bare arm.  “Sure, it’s going to be fine.  Sure.  Bruce will get here.  He’ll figure it out.  We got this.”

_Please, God, let us have this._

The bedroom descended into silence as Tony jittered uselessly and tried to cool Steve down and thought too much.  _They poisoned him.  It has to be.  That fucking buckshot…  I need to get it down to the lab so I can analyze it.  Bruce’ll want data when he gets here.  He always does better when you come at him with data.  So I’ll get his fever down and then take a look at the buckshot, maybe get some blood samples, maybe – this has got to be it.  Those assholes did this to him, and we’ll undo it, and then he can heal and he’ll have to see how stupid he’s being and how fucking pointless and dangerous this is and…_   “Steve?”  He hadn’t noticed as he’d worked, but Steve’s breathing had evened out.  He’d fallen asleep.

Tony climbed off the bed as quietly as possible, reaching for the thermometer where it had fallen.  Removing the compress, he swiped it lightly over Steve’s forehead.  “103,” he read, disappointed it wasn’t lower than that.  Still, a degree lower was a degree lower, and pessimism was pissing him off.  He had a plan now, a theory – no, an _explanation._   He could work with that.

But it was hard to move all the sudden, as if seeing Steve drop off into something resembling a peaceful state made it hard for him not to do the same.  He was tired.  _So fucking tired._   Just like that, his mind abandoned its feverish pulse and slipped into a haze of memory, of waking up to see Steve coming out of his shower with only one of those ridiculously expensive Egyptian cotton towels wrapped around his waist.  It was the night after they’d fallen into bed together, the first night Steve had slept in his bed.  Tony remembered how he’d dreaded the morning after, that awkward, uncomfortable uncertainty.   But it hadn’t been that way at all.  He hadn’t wanted to get rid of Steve like he’d done for so many of his one-night stands in the past (not that he’d had many in the last couple years, but the feeling clung to the moment like a stale sweat).  No, the awkwardness had been for something else entirely.

He’d wanted Steve to stay.  And he hadn’t quite known how to convince him to do that.  So he’d joked about the towels, because he hadn’t thought Steve had noticed he was awake because the bedroom was so shadowy.  And Steve paused at the doorway of the bathroom, taking a moment to (adorably) feel the towel, rub it against his cheek, even take a breath of it.  _“Like that, huh?”_

The look of embarrassment on his face, the blush burning from his cheeks and down his neck and chest…  Tony didn’t think he’d ever forget it.  _“The towels in my suite aren’t this nice.”_   He blushed even more furiously.  _“Not that the ones I have aren’t nice, Tony.”_

Steve was so cute when he was flustered.  Tony hadn’t let himself really appreciate that until then.  _Cute._   That wasn’t a thought he’d ever had about another man, let alone about Steve.  But that was what it was.  Cute and innocent and so damn perfect.  _“They’re imported.  And they cost a fortune, so not just anyone gets to use my towels.”_

Steve’s eyes had widened.  _“Imported?”_

_“That’s right.”_

_“How…”_ He’d looked down at the towel, wincing like he’d been horrified he’d cleaned off all the remains of last night’s encounter with it.  Like he’d dried himself with _actual_ money or something.  _“How much of a fortune?”_

Tony hadn’t been able to help his cheeky grin.  _“Thousands.”_

_“For the set?”_

_“Each.”_

Steve had stood there, that horrified expression getting more horrified (and mixed with admonishment that _that_ much money had been spent on something so trivial), and Tony had slipped off the bed, naked and completely uncaring and gently taking Steve’s hands where they were holding the towel up around his hips.  _“If that offends your Golden Generation sensibilities so much, then take it off.”_   Steve’s eyes had gone dark, pupils blowing wide with desire and memories from the night before, as Tony took the cloth away.  Tony had spent a moment appraising, regarding all the strength of those rippling muscles and the pale perfection of Steve’s skin and that ridiculous tapered waist and everything _else._   Not just Steve’s body, so warm against his and so smooth to the touch and so clean and smelling so good.  But what he’d given him.  It had all happened so fast last night.  They’d both been high with adrenaline after a frantic battle between the Avengers and the terrorist of the week, high and jacked up with no way to come down, and all the simmering, delicious tension between them since they’d _met_ …  It had boiled over.

Tony had known then and there that he wasn’t coming back from this.   That had been such a risk for him, admitting that when he hadn’t known at the time what Steve felt for him.  Still, Steve wasn’t the sort to sleep with someone lightly (he’d given Tony his virginity, for Christ’s sake, and Tony had felt so damn guilty that he hadn’t stopped the night before when Steve had sheepishly admitted he’d never had sex before.  He’d even been darkly and secretly thrilled and even more possessive because of it).  And Steve wasn’t the sort to leave the morning after like he’d been ashamed.  He’d wanted to believe this had all _meant_ something to him.  So, for the first time in forever, Tony had been _desperate_ to make a lover stay.  _“You weren’t leaving, were you?  Were you?  Because you don’t need to.  Really.  It’s cool.  I’m sure you’ve heard stuff.  Who hasn’t, right?”_ It had all come out as pathetic word vomit, but he hadn’t been able to stop it or let go of Steve’s hands. _“But it’s not like that.  I’m not like that anymore, not since Pepper, and not with…  Come back to bed.  You don’t need to slink off.  I mean, you’re welcome to the shower and the towels and anything you want and I mean_ anything _you want, Steve…  Fuck, don’t…”_

Steve had swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, shaking his head firmly, almost frantically.  _“I wasn’t–”_

_“Stay.  Don’t go do whatever it is you were going to do.  Stay here with me.”_

Steve had kissed him, harder and much more sure of himself than he’d been the night before.  Steve had pushed him back to the bed, pushed him down on it, playfully pinned him, covered him with all that strength and heat and smooth, clean perfection.  Steve had stayed.

Tony sighed, eyes burning again as the memory faded and reality returned.  The reality where Steve was beneath him now, panting shallowly, face creased in pain and red with fever.  The reality where Steve was sick because HYDRA had done something to him.  Tony swallowed down his anger, but it tasted so damn sour.  “How did we get here?” he whispered.  There was no answer, of course, no way to get an answer, but he wanted one anyway.  “How the hell did we get here?”

 _Barnes._   That urge to hit something, _kill someone_ , came back, hot and harsh.  This was Barnes’ fault.  _Fuck him._ He didn’t care what HYDRA had done to him, how he might have suffered, how he could be suffering right now.  He didn’t care.  The Winter Soldier was lost, a million miles and maybe as many years away for how accessible he was, and he was _still_ killing Captain America.  Grim and determined, he went back to cooling Steve’s face and chest and thinking and hoping and waiting for Bruce.  Bruce would know what to do.  Bruce would fix this.  And then that would be it.  Barnes could rot in hell for all Tony cared.  He wasn’t letting Steve leave.

And if there was a little voice in the back of his mind reminding him that Barnes had been in his very place for _years,_ cooling little Steve Rogers’ fevered face and chest in a dark hole of an apartment in Brooklyn, hoping this bout of pneumonia or that stint of influenza didn’t kill his best friend, thinking and waiting and praying…  Well, if that little voice was there, he ignored it.

* * *

JARVIS alerted Tony that Bruce’s plane was on time and that the car he’d dispatched to collect the good doctor was already waiting on the tarmac outside Stark Industries’ private hanger.  That was a relief, because things had seriously degraded in the last hour.  “Steve, can we get you back into bed?”

Steve just groaned.  He hadn’t moved much since collapsing by the toilet a while ago.  He’d woken from a fitful sleep, turned a miserable shade of green, and had barely staggered to the bedroom in time before vomiting.  Over the next few minutes as he’d worked himself into exhausted dry heaving, he’d unceremoniously thrown up all of the water Tony had gotten into him before.  That was all kinds of disturbing.  So was the fact that Steve didn’t seem capable of getting up.  Tony sat beside him, worried as hell, rubbing Steve’s arm where he lay on his side. 

“Steve…”

“Spinnin’,” Steve whispered.  He licked his lips and closed his eyes in pain.  “Room’s spinnin’.”

“All the more reason we need to get you up,” Tony said, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt.  “You can’t stay here.”

“Leave me alone…”

“Oh, that’s real mature.”

“’m fine.  Shove off.”  Steve pulled away from Tony’s grip on his arms, but Tony didn’t let go.  As weak as he was, Steve still managed to push Tony back.  It was a fraction of his normal strength but enough to send Tony down hard on his ass beside the intransigent young man.  “Leave me alone!”

This was like dealing with a child (not that Tony would really know anything about that, but he’d been called that once or twice by Pepper and sometimes Rhodey during his particularly stubborn or drunk moments, so he figured that counted for something in terms of experience).  Steve was still out of his head, laying there in a lumpy mess of long limbs and muscles, melting in his own misery.  And Tony was running out of patience.  “Come on.  You need to get your heavy ass up.  I’m not carrying you.  We need you back in bed so we can work on getting this fever under control.  Got it?”  Last he checked (which had been all of a couple minutes ago), Steve’s fever had climbed back up and over 104.  That was serious.  Like race-to-the-emergency-room-because-your-brain-is- _cooking_ serious.  Tony didn’t know how high a fever Steve could sustain with the serum, but he was pretty sure this was really bad.   And lying half-dead on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor wasn’t the answer.  “Come on.  If you pass out in here…”

Steve groaned, curling in on himself.  He panted through clenched teeth, his brow furrowing in obvious pain.  Tony forgot about his aching ass and depleted compassion and was right back at Steve’s side, rubbing his arm comfortingly like he’d never stopped.  “What?  You need to puke again?”

He did.  His eyes went wide, full of tears and agony, and he was clambering for the toilet bowl anew.  Tony got an arm around Steve’s back and helped him more upright.  He couldn’t watch, wincing and averting his eyes as Steve retched.  There couldn’t be much left, not with the way his stomach had violently tried to invert itself not long ago.  He tried to give some solace, as pathetic and useless as that was, rubbing Steve’s back and murmuring that everything was okay and it all would be fine and this would be over soon.  And he tried to take solace in the fact that Steve’s body had to be fighting whatever HYDRA had done to him, with this raging fever and vomiting and–

“T-Tony?”

Tony turned.  His brain stopped and his heart stopped and he could only whisper, “Oh, fuck.”

Steve hadn’t thrown up much this time, but what little he had was streaked with bright red.  _Blood._   Steve leaned back, wiping at his mouth, and red was smeared there, too, across his lips and fingers.  They both stared at it in horror, which was pretty stupid, if Tony could spare a thought or two for that.  He’d seen Steve cough up blood before.  He’d done it himself.  In their line of work, getting hurt, sometimes badly hurt, was a given.  But usually there was pretty significant abdominal and/or chest trauma leading up to puking up blood.  Not like this.  Not without a discernible cause.

But Steve was clearly too cooked to care.  He slumped.  “’s alright,” he slurred.  “’m fine.”

“Christ, you are _not_ fine!”  That fear that had been building and building was damn well exploding now, and Tony couldn’t stand it anymore.  “You are not fucking fine!  Jesus, Steve!  Stop with this bullshit!  Stop downplaying everything!  And stop fucking _lying!_ ”

And Steve, being Steve, winced and fell back onto his side.  He rubbed his cheek into the floor, probably enjoying how the cold tile was leeching the heat from his face, and whispered, “Sorry, Tony.  Let me…  Leave me be.  Sleep it off.”

God, how could he be so stupid?  Tony pulled Steve against him, his heart hammering wildly.  Steve’s heart was pounding, too, and he looked paler by the second.  He felt hotter by the second, too.  His eyes were half-lidded and glazed, and Tony could practically see him losing consciousness.  “Steve?  Steve!”  Steve’s head lolled against his arm.  His skin was gray.  “JARVIS, I need the suit!”

“Sir–”

“I need the goddamn suit!  Right now!”  His voice cracked, and he cradled Steve close, heart flayed and bleeding and _weeks_ of dealing with Steve coming home broken and leaving the second he was better all pouring out of him now on every shuddering breath.  “Hold on, Steve.  Hold on.  Just hold on, baby.  I’m going to get help.  I’m–”

Iron Man burst into the bathroom.  The armor hovered there a moment, waiting for his direction.  Tony carefully set Steve down and stood so the suit could encase him.  The weight of the armor was calming and empowering, at least.  The HUD lit up as the faceplate descended, and immediately he could see more than he’d been able to before.  The biometric and infrared scanners in the suit were telling him all sorts of horrors.  “JARVIS, tell me Banner’s on the ground!”

“I wish I could, sir.  His plane has not yet landed and will not for another fifteen minutes.”  Tony could have screamed.  He scooped Steve up in his arms, charging from the bathroom and out into the bedroom.  Long afternoon shadows were stretching across the room, revealing the disheveled bed and discarded bandages and the mess of the last few hours.  He stood there, the suit bearing Steve’s limp body, and tried to think.  The Tower’s infirmary was stocked with everything: state of the art medical equipment, a surgical suite, and enough supplies to care for an army.  But there was no doctor ( _obviously_ ), and he didn’t have the skill to handle anything close to this ( _I have to admit that now.  I have to_ ), particularly if some HYDRA toxin or poison was involved ( _which has to be the case.  It has to be!_ ).  They needed Bruce.

 _No._ Steve couldn’t wait for Bruce.  Steve needed a doctor now.  “JARVIS, I’m taking him to Mount Sinai.”  He shouldn’t have needed to, but he rattled off his reasoning anyway, moving to the bed and laying Steve back down in the duvet and wrapping him up in it.  “He’s bleeding internally!  He’s got to be!  We can’t deal with that!  Whatever those HYDRA assholes did to him, it’s fucked the serum up so bad he’s not–”

“Sir, there is no evidence that Captain Rogers is–”

“Tell Bruce to meet us there!”  He gathered Steve again, praying the quilt would provide some protection from the autumn chill in the air.  “Just hold on, baby.  I’m getting you help.  Should’ve…”  He couldn’t finish, racing through the penthouse to the balcony.  His brain thought what his mouth couldn’t bear to say.  _Should’ve stopped this.  Kept you here with me.  Stopped you from leaving.  Stopped all of this.  I knew this time was different yesterday, and I shouldn’t have thought I could take care of it.  Should’ve stuffed my pride.  Should’ve gotten help earlier._

_I need to get you help now._

Tony was out the doors and on the balcony without thinking.  The day was garishly bright, and even in the suit he winced.  Holding Steve tight, he jetted up and into the sky over Midtown Manhattan.  Maybe it was a little ridiculous to pour all the suit’s considerable speed and power to fly the dozen blocks or so to Uptown, but he did.  He couldn’t stand the thought of wasting another second, not when Steve could be dying in his arms.  And it was going to make a goddamn disaster in the media, but he didn’t hesitate to land in the middle of 10th avenue, in the middle of the late afternoon commute, in the middle of traffic and pedestrians walking.  Cameras started to flash rapidly, and phones were taking video.  Iron Man was the most recognizable of the Avengers (that was his fault, from all his showboating and grandstanding and other bullshit back in the day).  This was hardly the first time people had seen him like this.

And this was hardly the first time the emergency room at Mount Sinai had dealt with an injured Avenger.  They’d come here in the past, when life or death had pretty well trumped the need for privacy and security.  SHIELD had established a working relationship with quite a few area hospitals, getting the administrators and staff to sign non-disclosures and the like.  It had been a while since they’d used any of that, since SHIELD had been shown to be a bunch of lying, traitorous bastards.  Tony hoped everything had been good before and would hold now.  Still, he pulled the duvet up around Steve more to hide him and refrained from yelling at the top of his lungs in panic and instead went to the first nurse he could find in the busy emergency room.

“I need help,” he gasped.  The nurse, a young lady with brown eyes and dark brown hair, looked understandably terrified, but he didn’t have the patience to coddle her.  “He’s sick.  He needs a doctor right now!”

A couple other nurses and doctors came right over at the commotion, and when they saw who he was and who he was carrying, their eyes went wide and their breaths caught.  Before Tony knew it, they had bustled him and Steve to a more private area in the back.  “What happened?” one the doctors asked.

“We need a team in here!  It’s Captain America!”

“Sir, let us see him!”

“How bad is it?”

“Looks bad!”

“Sir, we can’t help him like this!  Please, let him go!”

It took Tony a great deal of effort to realize he was holding Steve so tightly and guardedly that not one of the flock of hospital staff around him could touch him.  No one could overpower Iron Man.  No one could _make_ him set Steve down, so he _had_ to do it himself.  He had to make himself do it.  He had to come to terms with what he knew was true: _I can’t fix him._   It was harder than he’d ever imagined.

But he did it, physically anyway, and he laid Steve’s limp body down on the hospital bed.  “Please, give us some room,” someone demanded, and Tony let himself be pushed back and out of the way.  The flurry of activity around the bed was dizzying.  So many white coats and blue scrubs and gloved hands.  He could barely see Steve’s face, but it was still so flushed with fever.  His eyes were sealed and sunken.  The physicians were cutting the rest of his sweats off and talking, a fast-paced battering of words against Tony’s skull.  That same someone’s voice was tense with worry as he declared, “He’s running a high fever.”

“How high?”

“105!”

“Let’s get an IV started.  Get him on oxygen.”

“Christ, what the hell happened to this guy?  Some of these wounds look days old…”

“Somebody did a number on him.”

“Shouldn’t the super soldier serum take care of this?”

“Captain Rogers?  Can you hear me?  Can you open your eyes?”

“Rigid abdomen.  Pulse is through the roof.”

“What happened to his side?”

“Let’s get a CT scan right away.”

“Mr. Stark.  Mr. Stark!”  Someone was yelling at him.  Someone now standing in between him and Steve.  He couldn’t see Steve’s face anymore.  He’d thought as long as he could keep an eye on him, it’d be okay.  Steve wouldn’t vanish like he had all the other times.  He wouldn’t wake up from this nightmare alone with Steve _gone_.  “Mr. Stark, can you step out with me?”

 _Focus._   “What?”

It was the same nurse from earlier.  She was sweet and pretty and very clearly worried, either about him or Steve.  Or both.  “Can you step out with me, sir?  Please.  Let them work.”  Tony didn’t register that at first.  He was still trying to see Steve.  He had to see Steve, and she kept getting in his way.  “Mr. Stark, please.”

What choice was there?  _This_ was what he’d come here for.  Help.  To let other people, _more qualified_ people, take care of Steve.  So he backed away, backed out the door, and left Steve behind.

Outside there was such a bustle of activity.  It was all a blur, a distant throb of sound and smear of drab hospital colors.  Tony lingered in a daze, shocked for some reason at where he was and what he was doing even though he was the one who’d decided to come here and do this.  The nurse was watching him, a mixture of fear and sympathy on her face.  “Could you…  If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Stark, could you take off the armor?  People are staring.”

Of course, they were.  Tony glanced around anyway, spotting pairs and pairs of eyes, other doctors and patients and security, all watching with curiosity or fear or even disgust.  “Sir.”  JARVIS’ voice was loud, jolting through Tony.  “Allow me to return the suit to the Tower.  I am also in contact with the drivers that were dispatched to collect Doctor Banner.  He has landed.  They will bring him here directly.”

Tony couldn’t quite follow any of that.  He just murmured, “Okay.”  The suit smoothly peeled away of its own accord, releasing him and standing to his side.  Clearly it was lingering for his say-so, and when he reluctantly nodded, Iron Man made his way back out of the emergency room.  People skittered back, shocked and horrified, as the armor disappeared out the sliding doors.

Without the armor, Tony felt even more lost and impotent, which was all kinds of stupid, but he really couldn’t help himself.  He was weak like that.  Steve made him weak.  And paranoid.  And _terrified._   His hands were shaking.  He noticed that now without Iron Man’s gauntlets hiding it.  He squeezed them into fists just to fucking _stop it,_ and she saw.  She got bolder then and tenderly touched his arm, guiding him without him even realizing it until they were off to the side in a quieter area.  “What happened?” she asked.  Tony couldn’t make his brain work, so he dumbly stood there, not answering.  She smiled gently.  Tony saw through it.  This was the sort of smile she probably wore for panicked family members.  Normally he despised that sort of shallow bullshit, trite condolences from strangers, but this time…  This time he felt better.  “Mr. Stark, can you answer my questions?  It’s really important we get a complete picture here.  What happened?”

“I…”  Then he saw she had a tablet and was obviously going to record what he said.  And she was young and probably new and didn’t realize how things worked with the hospital’s NDA.  That really rubbed him wrong.  His patience was so worn at this point and he felt so damn _useless_ that he could hardly contain a harsh reaction.  At least he managed to tone it down.  “I don’t want records of this.  Do you understand?  _Nothing_ gets saved.  I swear to God if–”

“Mr. Stark, please.”  If she was upset by what he’d said, she didn’t show it.  Her own tone was calm, again something she likely rehearsed for people frightened about the fate of their loved ones.  “I’m sure Captain Rogers is in very good hands.  There’s nothing to worry about.”  _Bullshit, there’s nothing to worry about!  Steve’s…_   “Just tell me what happened.”

God, that was a fucking laugh.  He _did_ laugh, a hoarse, partially insane chortle, and raked his fingers through his hair.  What happened?  Like that could be summed up into a simple story, where plot point A led into plot points B and C and those things linearly built into an exciting climax and finally a meaningful, heartfelt resolution.  This was a fucked up, twisted knot of stuff and he didn’t even know where to start.  _My boyfriend is killing himself trying to find his long-lost buddy._   There.  That was simple enough.  Too simple.  _He keeps doing this, keeps getting himself hurt, throwing himself on the fucking wire and trying to save someone who doesn’t deserve it and won’t be saved and I can’t make him stop!_   “Mr. Stark?”

It all came spilling out.  “He – he came back yesterday.  Came home.  Captain Rogers, I mean.  And he was pretty banged up.  I, uh…”  Why the hell did he feel so ashamed?  “I patched him up.  I always do.”

“This isn’t the first time?”

He didn’t want to answer that, so he ignored it and went on.  “Usually he can sleep stuff like this off, you know, the serum can heal him, but he woke up a couple hours ago…”  He felt sick thinking about it.  Why hadn’t he _done_ something then?  Bruce had been hours away, and he’d just _let_ Steve get worse, wasting his time with useless drugs and trying to talk him through his delirium and cooling him off with stupid washcloths.  What the hell was the matter with him?  “He woke up with the fever.  He was pretty out of it.  And he threw up blood.”

“When?”

“Maybe twenty minutes ago.”

The nurse nodded and asked him more, how much blood Steve had vomited, if he had any other symptoms, and so forth.  He answered.  It felt surprisingly freeing to talk about it, like he was unburdening himself in a sense.  She hadn’t typed anything into her tablet.  Maybe she would later.  Maybe she was just humoring him.  And nobody knew about him and Steve, _nobody_ outside of Wilson and Romanoff and Pepper, but clearly she’d figured it out with that calming smile and that soothing tone and the gentle touch of her small hand to his arm.  How could she not know?  Tony heard his voice cracking and felt sweat coating his face in a disgusting sheen, so he knew he was showing her everything he couldn’t bear to say.  “Okay, Mr. Stark.  It’s okay.  One more thing.  Do you know where he was while he was gone?”

Again, this was something Tony wasn’t going to answer.  “No.”  Lying was good.  He could lie and hide this, at least.

“Was he out of the country?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t matter.  Steve can’t get sick.  He shouldn’t be _able_ to get sick.  There’s got to be something wrong with the serum!  I’ve got Doctor Bruce Banner coming.  He’ll be here soon, and when he gets here, I want him working with Steve’s doctors.  He knows more about the serum than anyone so–”

There was commotion over her shoulder, and the team of doctors and nurses that was tending to Steve came out of the room.  They were flanking the stretcher, rushing it down the hallway.  Tony only got a glimpse of Steve’s bare feet as they took him away.  “Wait, wait!”  His heart lurched almost painfully, and for a second he had this irrational fear of it just giving out as damaged as it was by Afghanistan and years of abuse from the metal in his chest and the arc reactor he’d needed to keep himself from dying.  He felt like he was dying now.  He had been little by little, every time Steve had left him, but now they were _taking_ him and this was going to end up like DC, with Steve in the ICU with a tube down his throat and Tony fucking praying to a God he didn’t believe in because what _else_ could he do?  _“Wait!”_

One of the doctors turned toward him.  He pressed his lips into a frown.  “Mr. Stark, we’re taking Captain Rogers up to have some scans, an X-ray and a CT.  We’ll know more conclusively what’s going on at that point, but I think it’s fairly likely he has some internal bleeding in his abdomen.”

“No shit, doc,” Tony spat viciously.  “So why aren’t you _treating_ it?”

The doctor frowned, clearly insulted.  “Because exploratory surgery on a man who can’t be sedated is akin to torture in my opinion.  I’d rather know what we’re dealing with before we cut him open and go hunting for the bleed, wouldn’t you?”

That took Tony aback.  “I…”  He swallowed, feeling surprisingly put in his place.  He so rarely felt that.  “Yeah.  Yeah, okay.”

The doctor’s hard expression softened.  Tony was pretty sure he recognized him.  Once or twice before, maybe this guy had treated Steve or him or one of the others on the team.  “The nurses will get you set up in the ICU where you can wait, alright?  Excuse me.”  The doctor went back to the stretcher that was already practically out the door of the ER, and Tony was left reeling in the wake with the hum of the ER around him and his head spinning and his heart aching.  They were taking Steve from him.  He couldn’t go with.  It felt monumentally _stupid_ to be concerned, that Steve was alone and he was alone, but he was.  He was alone.

The pretty nurse was still with him, though.  He wondered if it was because they thought he was a loose cannon considering how worked up he was, or if it was because he was Tony Stark and thus really powerful and maybe a threat to them, or if it was because she was just a nice girl who simply wanted to comfort a man she could tell was at the end of his strength.  It didn’t matter.  She was sweet and careful with him, leading him with gentle prods and soft words up to the elevator and depositing him in the waiting room of the ICU.  It was quiet here, at least.  Tony always hated it (although being on this side, the waiting side, he found way worse than being on the other side).  This place felt one step above the morgue.

She deposited him in the waiting room on a couch that looked more comfortable and expensive than it actually was.  “If you need anything, let someone know.”  Dazed and tired, Tony nodded.  If he needed anything, he could get it himself.  On his terms.  And he would.  And if Steve needed anything…  “It’ll be alright, Mr. Stark.”  He looked up at her, found that same gentle smile, and it pissed him off so much he wanted to tear her down for it.  She didn’t know him.  She didn’t know Steve.  She had _no fucking clue_ what this had been like, all the fights and the arguing and patching Steve up and letting Steve go culminating into _this_.  Who the hell was she to tell him it was alright?  _It’s not alright.  It’s not going to_ be _alright.  You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about._

He didn’t say any of that, though, nodding instead in the most half-hearted gesture imaginable.  She gave a sunny grin before offering up some more perfunctory assurances that she’d let him know something as soon as she knew something before heading off.

Now he really was alone.  It pretty magnificently sucked.  Granted, he was alone a lot, loved it sometimes when he was in the thick of designing things and lost up in his ideas and inventions.  There were no ideas or inventions here, just the quiet, drab waiting room, the soft murmur of conversations in other rooms that he wasn’t meant to hear and the hum and beeps of machines keeping patients alive.  He managed to sit still for all of a minute before he was hunting in his pants for his phone and finding Pepper’s number in it.  It was early afternoon on the West Coast, but maybe he could catch her between meetings.  He felt just a tad bit guilty for bothering her but not guilty enough not to do it.  Taking a deep breath, he dialed.

“Hello?” she answered.

“Pep?”

She knew something was wrong just from that one word, from the tone of his voice.  It was really obvious right now with his lungs shaking inside him and his throat knotted, but she always could tell anyway.  “What’s the matter?”  Tony curled forward, hanging his head and struggling to hold himself together.  Struggling even to speak.  Goddamn it, when had he gotten this pathetic?  “Tony?  Are you there?  What’s wrong?”

“Steve came back.”  She knew about everything, at least everything he’d been willing to say.  Back when things had been better, she’d been happy that _he’d_ been happy with Steve.  There were no hard feelings at all from their break-up.  And he’d told her once or twice since then that stuff hadn’t been going so well, not with SHIELD falling apart and HYDRA on the rise and Steve hunting down Barnes.  So she knew what that meant.  She knew.  “He’s back.”

She was quiet a beat.  “Is he okay?”

“N-no.  We’re at Mount Sinai.  He’s really sick.”  Suddenly he regretted doing this.  He didn’t want to explain everything.  But it came pouring out anyway, even though he was trying to hold it in.  “HYDRA did something to him.  They did something to him somehow.  I don’t know.  Bruce is coming.”

She was silent even longer this time.  “Are _you_ okay?”

He wanted to come back with something snarky and witty, but all he managed was a hoarse, gasping groan.  “No.”

“Tony, do you want me to come?  I can be there in–”

“No.”  He gathered himself because if he didn’t this was only going to get worse.  He loved Pepper.  He always would.  But he couldn’t deal with the guilt of what had happened to her on his account on top of everything that was happening with Steve.  Why had he even called?  Just because he always called Pepper to fix his problems, whether they were with the press or the company or just him fucking up?  Just because he’d thought he’d feel better hearing her voice?  He did, but that came at a price.  She always had everything so in control.  It had taken him a long time to admit it, but he admired that, how she didn’t get flustered.  And he envied it now, hence the price.  “No, it’s okay.”

“It’s really not a problem.  If you need me, I’ll come.”  He knew she would.  It wasn’t demeaning or disparaging or anything like that, either.  She loved him, too.  She always would.  And she cared about Steve.

“No, no.  I’m okay.  Just…  We’re at Mount Sinai, and I don’t know how secure things are here.  Steve’s information.  People saw me bring him in.  So if you could make sure it’s all locked down.  Last thing we need is the media getting involved with this or the hospital selling the story or something.”

“You want me to sic the company lawyers on the hospital?”  She tried to sound light and incredulous, but it was forced.

“Yes.  Make sure nothing gets out.  Please.  SHIELD used to handle this stuff.”

“I know.”

He choked a little on his words.  It took him a second to get them out.  “I’m scared, Pep.”

“Tony–”

There was the sound of footsteps approaching, and Tony looked up.  “I gotta go.  I’ll call you back.”  He didn’t give her a chance to argue, hanging up and standing as Bruce reached him.  His heart started pounding, and he couldn’t stop himself from being demanding.  “Tell me you know something.”

Bruce scratched a hand through his hair.  He was still sporting the shorter cut and the beard from the last few months, though his hair was a bit longer than when he’d last been in New York.  He was dressed nicely in a pair of dark jeans and a button-down gray shirt with a brown suede jacket.  He was tanner, too, probably from one of his many sojourns in the remote areas of the world that he took when he was feeling particularly insecure about his “condition”.  Tony realized then and there that he was damn lucky Bruce was stateside rather than in India or Malaysia or Africa or wherever he was favoring nowadays.  “I just got here,” Bruce said.

Tony sputtered in frustration.  Bruce frowned and hesitantly clasped his shoulder before drawing him into a hug.  They were friends, good friends, bonded through their respective obsessions with science and technology and the need to know things probably best left undiscovered.  Mad scientists, as Tony liked to think.  They’d grown closer after New York and had stayed that way since, though he hadn’t seen Banner much since SHIELD had fallen.  Now the physicist was apparently stuffing his well-known dislike of physical contact and awkwardly patting his back, and Tony had to admit it felt so good that he simply succumbed.  “It’s going to be okay, Tony.”  Bruce patted harder and then started with some circular rubbing and Tony actually started to believe him.  “Whatever’s wrong, we’re going to figure it out.  Alright?  I know this is – it’s hard on someone who–”

“Wait a minute,” Tony snapped, pulling away from Bruce.  He scowled, increasingly suspicious and pissed off.  “You _know?_ ”

Banner had the decency to look a bit ashamed.  “Natasha told me.”

That was all kinds of confusing.  “You talked to Natasha?”  Now the other man flushed.  “What else have you been doing with her?”

“Nothing!”  Flustered, Bruce shook his head.  “She and I ran into each other a few months back after SHIELD went down.  We’ve been talking, that’s all.  And what does it matter?”  Despite everything, Tony was stupidly surprised.  _Romanoff and Bruce?_ Stranger things had happened, he supposed.  “She’s really worried about Steve.  And besides, it was pretty obvious.”

“What?”

“Oh, come on.  You and Cap went from biting each other’s heads off every second you guys were together to bickering like a _couple_ , teasing and smiling and flirting and don’t you dare try to deny it.  I know you, Tony.  All the sudden you and he were attached at the hip and so in sync with each other that it was impossible _not_ to see it.”

Bruce did know him, so there really was no sense in arguing.  And shockingly (or not, considering what was going on) he was too damn rattled and upset to care.  “Did JARVIS fill you in?”

“Yeah.  He sent me everything that happened to my phone when we landed.”

“Something’s wrong with the serum.”  Bruce winced and started to shake his head, but Tony was adamant.  “No.  This isn’t supposed to happen.  There has to be something wrong with the serum.  He can’t get sick!”

“I know that, Tony.”

“So there’s something wrong!  HYDRA did something to him.  I can’t get a clear answer out of him about what happened before he came back, but somehow they got to him.  Did JARVIS tell you about the buckshot?  It’s got to be something, little poison pellets or fuck if I know, but we need to analyze it because I got it out but it made him sick and–”

“Okay, okay.  Take it easy.”  Bruce grasped his shoulders, and the touch was grounding.  “I don’t think they could just shut down the serum, Tony, not enough to do this to him.”

“But what if they did?”

Bruce was equal parts concerned and bewildered.  “Look, I’m not dismissing anything right now.  I wouldn’t put anything past HYDRA.  But let’s not jump to conclusions, alright?  That doesn’t help anyone.”  Tony must have looked as angry and frustrated as he felt.  Bruce sighed.  “I know you’re scared, but we’re going to figure this out.  No matter what you did the right thing bringing him here.  And once the doctors get an idea of what’s wrong, I’ll go back to the Tower and take a look whatever you pulled out of him.  Are you sure you got it all?”

Tony hadn’t really thought about that.  Was there a way to be sure?  _If I missed some, that means this weapon of HYDRA’s is still in his body.  That would explain it all._ “I – I don’t know.”

“Alright.  Let me go and talk to the doctors.  It’s going to be okay.  Alright?  It is.  Steve’s strong.  You know how strong he is.  He’ll be fine.”  All placating bullshit, and Bruce sucked at delivering it.  Besides, Tony was starting to see how _not strong_ Steve could be sometimes.  Not strong enough to listen to reason.  Not strong enough to see the truth, even when it was staring at him right in the face.  Not strong enough to admit how he felt or recognize that what he was doing was hurting others, hurting Sam and Natasha.  _Hurting me._ People often mistook stubbornness for strength, himself included.  But Tony just nodded like a fucking puppet.  “Why don’t you get us some coffee or something?  Or something to eat?  You look like you need it.  I know I do.”

Tony felt himself nod again.  “Yeah.  Okay.”

Bruce gave another small smile.  Tony felt like a kid being coddled by a parent.  “Alright.  I’ll be back as soon as I can.”  He let go of Tony’s shoulders and walked away.

Tony didn’t let him get far.  “She doesn’t think I’m good enough.”

Bruce stopped having barely left the waiting room.  “What?  Who?”

He didn’t know why he was saying this.  He just felt so damn low, so scared, so raw.  “Natasha.  She doesn’t think I’m good enough for Steve.”

Despite the newfound friendship (or whatever) Bruce had with Romanoff, he wasn’t nearly as proficient as she was at hiding her emotions.  Confirmation of Tony’s suspicions splayed all across his face in widening eyes and limply opening lips before Banner managed to steel himself.  “What?  No, Tony, that’s not it.  That’s not what she–”

“Yes, it is.  And I don’t care.  She could be right.  Maybe I’m not.”  He found strength from somewhere, crossing the waiting room and standing tall in front of the other man.  “In fact, I know I’m not.  God knows I’ve screwed up everything ever worth anything in my life.  I’m not as good as he is, not by a long shot.  But you know what?  _I don’t care._   He came to me.”  _Because he loves me._   He wasn’t strong enough to say that, even though the words were banging against his heart and pushing at his lips.  Demanding their due.  “He comes to me.”

“I know he does, Tony,” Bruce answered, “and we’re going to figure this out.  I promise.” 

He was gone after that, quickly walking out of the waiting room and heading to get some answers.  Tony watched him go, trying not to care that Bruce hadn’t denied what he’d said.  Not really.  Alone ( _really_ alone), he sat back down and buried his face into his hands.  He was shaking again, shaking with the effort not to lose control, shaking with fear.  Unadulterated.  Undeniable.  Fear that he was really losing Steve now.  Everything felt like it was crumbling, falling apart, disintegrating in his grasping hands.  He wiped his face, ignoring the hint of wetness from his eyes, and sighed in a quivering gust.  “How did we get here?  How the hell did we get here?”

There was still no answer.


	4. Chapter 4

_“Tell me now: where was my fault_  
_In loving you with my whole heart?”_  
– Mumford and Sons, “White Blank Page”

“He has what?” Tony asked with a wince.

Bruce and Steve’s doctor (Tony couldn’t remember his name – Wagner? Werner?  No point in trying to figure it out, so “the doctor” it was) stood before him.  They’d just returned after being gone more than an hour, an hour in which Tony had steadily and inexorably driven himself crazy.  He’d paced.  He’d counted the lights a dozen times.  He’d skulked around, trying not to seem creepy but inconspicuously (or not) glancing into other patient rooms (two old folks dying of pneumonia and heart failure and a young guy who was brain dead from a car accident – Tony didn’t like that last one because the young guy looked just a little like Steve if Steve had been brunet and covered in tattoos).   He’d checked his phone to see that JARVIS had found nothing in his search of the SHIELD data dump so far (he’d completely forgotten he’d sent the AI on a hunt for information on Lukin earlier that day until JARVIS had sent him a status update).  He’d even leafed through the couple of magazines there, gossip rags and the like (it was pretty nice that he wasn’t mentioned in any of them.  Hurray for small miracles).  He’d drunk down the awful coffee and paced more and tried his damnedest not to think or worry or be afraid or wonder if Steve was okay or what the hell was taking so long.  He’d done all that, and it had been the worst torture he’d ever known, which was saying quite a bit because he’d actually _been_ tortured.  So when Banner had shown up a moment ago with that hesitant frown on his face that could only mean he had information, Tony had immediately sprung to his feet and demanded to know the truth.

And this was the truth.  Bruce shared a look with the doctor that only served to further piss Tony off.  “He has peritonitis,” the doctor said again, more slowly this time.  “Inflammation of the abdominal cavity, caused by a rather serious infection.”

“Caused, in turn, by a sizeable perforation in his stomach.”  Bruce was clearly relieved that they had an explanation.  “Caused by what looks like a lead ball from the shotgun wound.  That’s where the damage is, where things are bleeding.”

Tony blanched.  His blood turned to ice inside him, and his heart absolutely stopped.  He felt like the floor was disappearing from under him, like he was falling.  Tumbling from the Chitauri portal over Stark Tower.  “Jesus.  I…  I thought I got it all.”  God, how could he have been so _stupid?_

Bruce seemed to read his mind.  “It’s not your fault.  There’s no way to be certain, but I’d guess the ball had already damaged his abdomen before he even got back to New York, Tony.  The partial healing would have made it extremely difficult to see how deep the wound went.  The infection was probably already present.  You couldn’t have known.”

Maybe.  He sure as shit felt like he should’ve known.  At the very least, he should have known he couldn’t treat that with a pair of tweezers and a bunch of hubris.  “Jesus,” he whispered again, and the waiting room started to spin.  His butt hit the chair behind him, and he felt like his hands were covered in Steve’s blood.  Stupid and so damn self-deprecating, but he couldn’t shake the image as he looked at them where they were dangling in between his knees.  _I should have known.  I should have seen.  I should have!_

Even still, he was too smart to be satisfied by their explanation.  “But he’s sick.  The fever.  I mean, he’s _sick._   Some – some _buckshot_ should not have brought down Captain America!”  His voice got too loud as he became more agitated, and he realized it even without Bruce’s wince and the doctor glancing around.  “That can’t be the whole story.  You know that, Bruce.”

Bruce raised a calming hand.  “I know, Tony, and I agree with you.  Steve’s walked off things worse than this before.  His body should have been able to deal with this on its own.”

The relief Tony felt at being _validated_ was stupidly immeasurable.  He shouldn’t have been so dependent on reassurance; he was a genius in his own right, and he was closer to Steve than Bruce was, closer than Natasha was, closer than _anyone_.  He thought that, _believed_ that, and to hell with anyone telling him otherwise.  So he _knew_ when something was wrong.  And something was really wrong.  “So what now?” he asked.

The doctor sighed.  “We’re prepping him for surgery as we speak.  Now that we know where the bleed is, we’ll go in, repair the damage, and clean what we can.  It’ll be a fairly delicate procedure because of the infection.  When digestive contents leak into the abdominal cavity, inflammation and infection are extremely likely, and in the Captain’s case, we–”

“I know how it goes,” Tony interrupted, trying not to be short.  “Is he going to be alright?”

Again with that glance.  “A GI perforation can be life-threatening, but once we get the wound repaired and the infection cleared, he should recover,” the doctor said.

“That doesn’t explain the problem with the serum,” Tony was quick to snap _._   “Where are we with that?”

Bruce sighed.  “Not much of anywhere yet.  I–”

Tony was so scattered that he was already shooting to the next thing, to the image in the back of his mind.  Steve, cut open.  Steve, helpless on a table.  Steve, alone and suffering.  He shuddered.  “Is he awake?”

The doctor looked disturbed.  “He is.  Getting some fluids into him has helped, and–”

“I’m in,” Tony declared.  Bruce frowned like he’d anticipated that and still didn’t have a good answer for it.  “I’m going in there with him, and that’s it.”

That frown got deeper and more intense.  “Steve’s had surgery without anesthesia before.  He knows the drill, and he’s with it enough to understand what’s going on.”  The implication that Steve could suffer through this alone because he _had_ before was revolting, and it only fed Tony’s anger and frustration further.  Still, he stopped himself from getting more upset and really thought about it, because Bruce wasn’t heartless.  And he was worried about Steve.  He was worried about Tony just as much, though, because _he knew_.  He knew how Tony felt about Steve, so this wasn’t just about comforting a teammate through treating an injury anymore.  This was about watching a loved one suffer.

Bruce had the tendency to shy from things that upset him.  Tony supposed that made sense for him, but Steve deserved better.  Steve deserved to have someone hold his goddamn hand while they sewed his guts back up.  Steve deserved to have someone there to tell him it was okay and pet his hair and wipe his tears and do whatever was necessary to help him through the pain (which there would be.  Surgery without sedation wasn’t something you fucked around with).  And it wasn’t just that.  He _needed_ to be there while they fixed Steve.  This was his job, his duty he couldn’t do, a _disaster_ he’d let happen.  It didn’t matter if there was no way he could have known about the buckshot that had wormed its way into Steve’s stomach.  Steve had specifically said no Bruce, no doctors, just Tony.  _“I just want you.”_   Well, Tony had failed with that request pretty spectacularly.  So if he could provide a modicum of comfort when Steve needed it now, he fucking well _would._

He shook himself from his thoughts, even more adamant but calmer at least.  It was that sort of calm you had when you knew what laid ahead of you was unpleasant but you also knew were strong enough to face it.  “I need to be in there with him.”

Bruce was smart enough not to argue.  And the doctor was intimidated enough to realize Tony Stark was rich and always got his way, so there was no sense in trying to stop him.  Tony felt a little bad about that, that he had a reputation of power through money, but if it got him in there with Steve, so be it.  “Alright, Mr. Stark,” the doctor said.  “I’ll take you up.”

The relief he felt was ridiculously strong, and he might have slumped in his chair a little.  _I can be with him._   Steve would be okay now.  Tony would be there, making sure of it.  No matter what was wrong with the serum, Bruce was right: they could work it out.  Bruce didn’t look pleased, but he nodded.  “Alright.  While the surgeons are working, I’ll head back to the Tower and take a look at the buckshot you did get out of him.  I’m also running a blood sample right now.  Maybe with those results we can isolate whatever’s impeding the serum.”  He turned to the doctor and lowered his voice.  “Once the surgical team finishes and Captain Rogers is ready, I’d like a full body scan.  Let’s not leave anything to chance.”

“Right,” the doctor agreed.  “Mr. Stark, if you’ll come with me?”

Tony was still so awash with stupid gratitude that they weren’t barring him from Steve that he didn’t notice himself getting up and following the doctor.  He also didn’t listen much to the doctor’s explanations – _“the tear is in Captain Rogers’ stomach, and it seems like his body has attempted to wall off the infection as much as possible, but it wasn’t enough.  This procedure is a tad dangerous because disrupting the infection could introduce it into his blood stream, and septicemia, particularly with the serum depressed, could be deadly”_ – or the instructions – _“you can’t touch anything and can’t interfere with the surgical team.  Do you understand?  Keep questions to a minimum.  And keep Captain Rogers calm.  Like I said, this is a delicate operation, and he can’t be allowed to thrash or struggle.  Can you handle that?”_

“Yes,” he heard himself say.  Everything was a buzz around his head, but he was pretty sure about that.  “Yeah, I can handle it.”

“Good.”  After exiting the elevator, the doctor led them through the security doors, flashing his ID at the nurse’s station.  There were hospital guards stationed there at the entrance and in the corridors.  Obviously they’d locked down the entire surgical floor to keep people away.  Again, Tony felt a little guilty about commandeering the hospital in a sense but not enough to argue against it.  “Head through there, Mr. Stark.  The nurses are waiting to help you.”

Tony hesitated a moment, staring at where the doctor had gestured before the man had turned and headed off to tend to other duties.  This was where he needed a moment of fortitude.  He’d tried to be certain about this, but he wasn’t.  This wasn’t his scene, wasn’t what he knew.  Offering comfort in the face of pain like this.  In theory he knew what it would be like; he’d seen Steve take bad hits before that had required medical treatment without the benefit of anesthesia or analgesics.  But that had been back then, back when they’d barely been friends.  And that time after the Battle over the Potomac…  This would be worse.  Back then Steve had been _so_ badly hurt that the pain somehow hadn’t factored into it right away.  By the time Tony had really taken over his care, getting him back to New York to finish his convalescence and escape the shit storm of government investigations, they’d been on the other side of the worst of it.  Steve had been well on the road to recovery.  Even before when he’d patched Steve up over the last few months, even when he’d picked that damn buckshot out of his side yesterday…  It didn’t compare.  Tony wasn’t terribly squeamish, but right now there was no getting around the fact that they had Steve cut open on an operating table and they were screwing around with his _internal organs._

For a minute, he was pretty sure he was going to puke.  He thought about bolting to the bathrooms and doing just that because the horrible, stale coffee was like a lead weight in his belly.  He didn’t, though.  He sucked in a calming breath and went inside the doors.

There were nurses waiting for him.  If they were at all shocked by helping Tony Stark wash up and cover himself in sterile protective gear, they didn’t show it.  In fact, they were soft-spoken as they instructed him in what to do and offered latex gloves and a gown and face mask.  Tony surprised himself with how cooperative he was.  Normally he’d be significantly more difficult with or at least irritable with all the protocols (particularly for someone who normally couldn’t get sick), but he simply couldn’t manage it.  Therefore, in short order he was outfitted and being led from the adjacent wash room and right into the operating room.

It was pretty much what he was expecting.  A clean, tiled place filled cluttered with equipment and machines.  There was a central bed around which the surgical team was gathered and upon which Steve was laying.  Immediately Tony could hear beeping and low murmuring and – _Christ –_ soft sobbing wrapped around strained panting.  There were a couple of nurses around Steve’s upper body so he couldn’t get too good a look at him first until one of the nurses spotted him and made room for him.  And, thankfully, there was a sheet blocking the view from the head of the operating table to anything past Steve’s collarbones.  _Thank God._   Tony practically wanted to cry himself.  He didn’t want to look ( _did_ , though, when his eyes darted there against his wishes and there was _a lot_ of red smeared _everywhere_ ) so he made himself keep his gaze low and on Steve’s face, which he could see better now.  It was white and bathed in sweat and tears and twisted in a grimace.  Steve was biting his lower lip bloody.  And his arms were strapped down cruciform.  Tony knew that was standard protocol, necessary even more so in this case, but it made everything worse.  Steve was struggling to stay still, holding himself back from wrenching the straps around his arms right off the table.  _Fuck._   This was awful.  He had been _expecting_ all of this, but experiencing it was something else entirely.  _Awful._

But he was here to make it better.  That was why he’d come, to make it better while these doctors fixed Steve’s body.  So he swallowed down the bile in the back of his throat and blinked until the room stopped spinning and walked right up the head of the table.  _Keep your eyes on him.  Eyes on him._   He chanted that over and over again in his head like a mantra of sorts, his own personal fucking cheerleader.  _Eyes on him._ “Steve?”

Steve jerked and turned his head and suddenly _his_ eyes, wet and wide and very deeply blue, were on Tony.  “Tony,” he gasped.  He was shivering almost violently, and his hands shot out from the side of the operating table to reach backward.  He barely stopped himself before the strap snapped.  His breath was a fast-paced cloud against the oxygen mask over his mouth and nose.  “Tony!”

“Keep still, Captain!” barked one of the surgeons, and Steve flinched, though whether from the reprimand or the pain Tony couldn’t tell.  Tony grabbed his hand, still keeping his gaze pointedly fixed on Steve’s face.  He couldn’t decide if this was better.  Steve had more color, sure, and that glazed, slack, feverish expression was gone, but it had been replaced by a miserably tight grimace.  And his grip on Tony’s hand was brutal, but he was doing his damnedest not to crush Tony’s fingers.  That was Steve for you, doing everything he could _not_ to be a burden (although, to be fair, Tony had to wonder if this wasn’t maybe a distraction to him, concentrating on reeling in his strength like he was).

In any case, Tony let himself be pulled closer, let Steve squeeze the life from his fingers, let Steve do whatever he needed to do to get through this.  “I’m here,” he lamely declared, even though that was obvious.  He was hesitant – imagine that, _Tony Stark hesitant_ – for a second or two.  He’d been there in the ICU down in DC, holding Steve’s hand and kissing Steve’s knuckles and promising God his soul if He’d just do Tony a solid and save Steve’s life.  That had been private, though.  A private room, a private area of the hospital, the privacy to shed his tears and whisper his empty promises.  This was anything but that.  There were a dozen people right there, watching (although Tony sincerely hoped that they had fucking better things to do than ogle the two of them).  He glared once, and the nurses backed away in some semblance of respect.  Then he undid the Velcro straps around Steve’s arm so he could hold his hand easier.  “Right here.”

Steve gave a strangled cry, his lips bloodless and pulled back from his teeth as he panted.  Tony could see finger-shaped indents in the operating table where Steve’s hand had been.  “Told you…” he moaned, gritting his teeth hard enough that Tony was afraid he’d crack them.  “Told you…  Didn’t want doctors!”

“Yeah, because I should have let your infected guts fester,” Tony said without a touch of humor in his voice.  “That’s fucking brilliant.”  At least his irritation was a decent shield for how bad he felt about it.  It wasn’t logical at all.  There was _no way_ he could have dealt with this on his own.  No way he could have detected how badly hurt Steve was inside.  No way he could have anticipated something would take down the serum.  Bringing Steve here was the best course, the _only_ course, and even thinking about the alternative was so sickening he couldn’t stand it.  “You’re full of great ideas.  Seriously.”  Steve grunted, throwing his head back a little and giving a few aborted jerks as he caught himself.  His grip on Tony’s hand turned painful again.  “Easy,” Tony hushed.  He squeezed Steve’s hand back even though his fingers were throbbing.  “Easy.”

“Deserve this,” Steve groaned when the current wave of agony relented.  He gasped, tears escaping the corners of his eyes to roll down his temples.  “Right?”  There was something about the way he said that.  Self-deprecating, sure, but not just that.  He was laboring for breath despite the oxygen mask, but he huffed out a little twist of a laugh.  “You can say it.”

Tony couldn’t help but smile.  “Can I?”

“Sure.  I won’t – won’t argue.”

“Wow, that’s a first.”

Steve moaned and writhed again.  Tony swallowed thickly and leaned closer.  “Not worth it.  You’d start apologizing your ass off again and I still don’t want to hear it.  Not having you moaning and groaning about that for the past couple hours has been nice.”

“Me moanin’… ’n groanin’ about this is better, huh.”

Tony smiled at that.  “So many inappropriate things are going through my head right now,” he said in a low voice.  The others could probably hear that, but to hell with it.  Steve actually grinned.  Tony was pretty sure that was what it was, even if it was brief and strained and half hidden by the mask.  That little, tired grin was worth _everything_.  “Later, huh?”

The grin was short-lived and shattered by a cough.  “Can’t think ’bout that now,” Steve managed through gritted teeth.  “Can’t…”

“Not helping?”

Steve barked a laugh that turned into a whine.  “Tony…”  Tony nodded and came even closer, putting his arm across Steve’s bare shoulders despite the look the nurses gave him.  Steve cried out, and Tony made the mistake of glancing over the top of the sheet.  _Christ._   The heart monitor, which had been tracing Steve’s erratic pulse, was beeping even more wildly, shrill even, and Tony was tempted to rush over and shut it off.  He might have, if Steve hadn’t arched his back a good half an inch off the table and with his mouth open in a now silent scream.  When he finally managed to suck in a breath, he choked out a sob, and Tony held him firmer.  He turned to glare unabashedly at the surgeons again who were on the verge of saying something else, like demanding Steve stay still as if they weren’t aware of how necessary that was.  “’m sorry,” Steve panted beneath him.  “So sorry.”

“Wow.  Back to this already?  Already.  It’s been thirty seconds,” Tony quipped, trying to keep his tone light.  It was so damn hard, but what else was he there for?  “You know what?”  Steve shuddered through the next seconds, gulping for air like it wasn’t coming fast enough, every muscle in his body taut with the effort to keep still.  He was bathed in sweat, fat droplets of it beading on his brow to roll into his hair, a sheen of it covering his shoulders and chest.  The nurses were doing their best to wipe it away before he was chilled, but they couldn’t do it fast enough.  Tony took a cloth and helped, too.  “You know what?  It’s almost over.  Isn’t it almost over?”

“You’re doing great, Captain,” one the nurses offered, picking up on Tony’s efforts.

“Definitely,” another added at a glance from the first, likely more from fear of what Tony could do to her if she didn’t cooperate.

“We’re getting there,” one of the other surgeons said.  Behind a plastic face mask, compassionate eyes lifted to look over the barrier.  “It’s not much longer.”

Again, it was all loads of empty assurances, but even Tony went all in.  “You hear that?  Not much longer.  You can do it.”  He barely stifled a grimace at how lame and disingenuous it sounded and barreled on.  “I know you can.  This is nothing compared to other stuff you’ve been through, right?  Grin and bear it, like you always do.  You can do it, Steve.”

Steve groaned, shivering.  “You…  You’re not…”  He seemed to think better of what he wanted to say.

Tony grinned.  He couldn’t fool Steve.  “I suck at this?”

Steve gasped another hoarse laugh.  “Somethin’ like that.”

“Well, too bad.  This is what you have right now.  I’m…  I’m your cheerleader, I guess.  So deal.”

“Please don’t leave me,” was Steve’s sudden, breathless, desperate response, and there was fear in his eyes that made Tony’s heart tremble.  Steve’s grip on his hand turned rougher, panicked, and he arched again.  “Please!”

“No.  No, sweetheart.  Not going anywhere.”  There was the face mask on Tony’s mouth and the oxygen mask on Steve’s, and there were people watching – a dozen people who could report this to the media or worse – but he didn’t care.  He cupped Steve’s chin with his free hand and pressed his face right to Steve’s.  There was this thing inside him that he was only beginning to put a name to – _love_ – and it swelled and crested and flooded over him, and he couldn’t deny it.  He couldn’t.  “I’m not leaving.  Eyes on me, Cap, and breathe.”

“Can’t,” Steve whined, shaking his head feebly.  “Can’t!”

 _“Can,”_ Tony said.  Normally he couldn’t make Steve do anything, not listen or stop or stay, but right now he was making him look at him.  He held Steve’s gaze, forced him to hold his back, grounded him and anchored him and did all the things he needed to do.  “You can.  You hear me?  And when this is over – hey, hey, look at me.”  Steve’s eyes had drifted and the quaking had gotten worse and Tony wasn’t going to allow him to sink helplessly into the pain.  “Look at me, Steve.  Come on.”  Steve blinked, freeing more tears, and exhaled a heavy, garbled sob.  Tony didn’t let him go, not until those baby blue eyes were back on his.  “There.  There you go.  Now you just keep your eyes on me.  It’ll be over soon.  You can get through it.  And when you do, we’re going home.”

“Home?” Steve whispered, like he didn’t understand the concept.  Maybe he didn’t.  Maybe he hadn’t since SHIELD had pulled him out of the ice and thawed him out and thrust him into this world.

 _No._   Tony wouldn’t believe that.  “Yeah, home.  Like it was before SHIELD went down.  You know.  The Tower.  Our… our bedroom.  My workshop.  You and me.”

Steve whimpered.  “And your… your bots.  You always forget ’em!”

Relieved, Tony laughed and blinked away the stinging blurriness in his eyes.  Steve had a home.  He had one with _him_.  “Okay, that just proves to me that DUM-E is in love with you.  What a traitor.”

“Maybe… maybe if you treated him nice…”

“Hold on, Captain.  We’re almost through.  Very still now,” the surgeon ordered.

Tony surged back in.  “We’ll go home.  Order take-out.  Watch bad movies.  We still have so many we need to get through.  So, so many, Steve.  And we’ll play video games until you suck less at them and screw around and waste time like we were born to.  You can draw.  I’ll tinker.  _Everything_ like it was before.  How’s that sound?”  Steve only moaned.  “Yeah, sounds good, right?  It’ll be awesome.  I promise you.  It’ll be fine.  We’ll be fine as long as we’re together.”

It felt so good to say that.  To believe it.  They could be together again, Captain America and Iron Man.  Stop arguing and hurting each other and pick up the pieces.  Break the goddamn cycle.  It could happen.  Tony drew a deep breath and went on.  “We’ll be together.  And this is it.  No more of this.”  It was bullshit, what he wanted to say, and definitely meaningless.  Steve was out of his mind, ill and in tremendous pain.  It wasn’t fair to corner him like this, to ask now when he wasn’t thinking clearly.  Cowardly, but Tony had always been something of a chicken shit when it came to relationships.  “No more, right?  This is the end of it.”  He didn’t specify what “it” was.  Could have been the pain, the surgery, the sickness.  Could have been the tension between them that had twisted and ramped up with every fight over the last few months.  It could have been a lot of things.  He knew what he meant, though.  _No more leaving me.  No more scaring me.  No more doing this to yourself._

_No more hunting for Barnes._

Steve nodded, desperate for relief.  “Yeah.  No more.  Please, Tony…”

Relief didn’t quite describe what Tony was feeling.  Ill-gotten, premature relief, but so, so strong.  “Alright.  Alright, you just breathe through this.  I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.  Eyes on me, Steve, and keep breathing.  It’s fine.  We’ll patch you up, get the serum working again, and then we’ll go home, and everything’ll be great.”  He smiled.  Steve tried to smile back, like there was a real, tangible, _valid_ understanding between them.  _This is it.  I’ll get him through this, take him home, and then it’ll be over.  Done.  Fixed._

Tony didn’t know who he was comforting anymore.  He wasn’t sure he cared.

* * *

The surgery had gone on another thirty minutes or so.  The doctors had extracted the foreign matter and extensively cleaned what they could from the wound and Steve’s abdominal cavity before repairing the damage and closing him back up.  He’d thankfully lost consciousness somewhere during the middle of all that; it had so suddenly happened that Tony hadn’t really noticed at first, stroking Steve’s face and wiping away sweat and still wearily whispering his nonsense only to take a closer look and find that Steve had passed out.  He hadn’t tried to rouse him, not even after they’d wheeled him to recovery and started pumping him full of fluids, blood, and some seriously powerful antibiotics.  No, he’d ignored his selfish desires and let Steve sleep, taking solace in the steady beeps of the heart monitors, in the fact that Steve’s fever was lower, in the way he was breathing calmly and easily now with only a nasal cannula.  He’d settled down to wait again, anxious to figure out what was wrong with the serum and kick it in the ass so they could do exactly what he’d promised: go home.

So he’d been more than ready when Bruce had shown up at Steve’s room in the ICU and asked him to come with him.  They’d gone up a floor to a private room that was probably used for conferences, and Bruce had explained what he’d found.

Now Tony’s brain was stuttering, hiccupping, stuck on one stupid thought over and over again.  _Occam’s Razor._   Meant to guide scientific problem-solving, it was an old principle that stressed parsimony over complexity.  Plurality should not be posited without necessity, it said.  Or, in layman’s terms, the simplest explanation was most often the correct one.  Frankly, Tony wasn’t a great believer in parsimony.  He’d seen and done stuff that would beggar the mind for a simple explanation, fighting aliens and knocking back beers with a demigod and loving someone from the 1940s who didn’t look a day over twenty-five chief among them.  His life was a series of unexplainable events, too complex to piece apart much less understand.  It was a long string of moments that were unimaginable and unbelievable, moments so bizarre that they defied rational thought and spat in the face of plain-old vanilla logic.

This was apparently _not_ one of those cases.  No, here the good precept of favoring simplicity over unnecessary complexity, Occam and his goddamn razor and all that, was right.  “So I…  I made this all up?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Bruce replied.

“But there’s nothing wrong with the serum.”

“No.”

“Well…”  Tony felt his face heat with a flush of embarrassment.  _God,_ he felt stupid.  “Fuck.”  He rationalized and defended himself, though, because that was what he always did.  “He had an infection eating him alive, Bruce!”

“Hey, no, you made the right call,” Bruce soothed.  “If Steve had shown up on my doorstep with symptoms like this, I would have thought the same.  You did the right thing, what anyone should have done.”

That didn’t make Tony feel better.  Steve hadn’t wanted doctors (which pretty well precluded taking him to a hospital), and here they were, apparently for nothing.  “Is that a Bannerism for ‘you overreacted like a love-struck moron’?”

Bruce gave him a withering look.  “No.  And just because there’s nothing wrong with the serum doesn’t mean there’s nothing wrong.”  That tempered Tony’s anger and shame mighty fast.  Bruce tapped a few places on the StarkTab he had, and the small device immediately came to life with data.  “The samples I ran showed that serum concentrations in Steve’s blood are within normal limits for him based on the data we have from SHIELD.  Maybe slightly depressed but not significantly so.  And I analyzed the buckshot you pulled out of him.”  He brought some more information onscreen.  “It’s just buckshot.  Lead, but that’s HYDRA I guess.  Not… not pellets of poison, and they weren’t coated in any sort of toxin or anything, at least not that I could detect.”

Tony winced, shaking his head and looking over the numbers in confusion.  He was too tired (and too worried again) to really make sense of it.  “Okay?  But _something_ had to make the serum depressed.  You know as well as I do that he should never have gotten sick from something like this.”  He was turning into a broken record, saying the same stupid things over and over again.  _Turning?_   He’d been a goddamn broken records for _months_.  Telling Steve to stop.  Telling Steve he was running himself into the ground.  Telling Steve he was killing himself.

Suddenly it occurred to him.  He slumped like his limbs were turning into jelly, and catching himself against the conference table behind them was the only thing that kept him from ending up on his ass.  “Oh, shit.  He did this to himself?”

Now Bruce was the one to grimace, like he didn’t want to think of it that way but when you pulled away all the excuses and rationales that was all that could really be left.  He nodded.  “I thought it was weird that this all came on so acutely.  I mean, it fit with HYDRA poisoning him somehow, but once I started ruling that out…”  He sighed.  “How much were you paying attention during the surgery?”

The implication ruffled Tony’s proverbial feathers.  “Lots,” he snapped, “but to Steve.”

Bruce nodded, not taking offense to Tony’s attitude.  “It wasn’t buckshot they pulled from his stomach, Tony.  It was bigger, mushed to all hell, but…  Well, the bullet was from a different gun.  A .45 caliber.”

Tony didn’t make sense of that for a second.  “He was shot again?  Before he came back?”

“ _Weeks_ before, in all likelihood.”  Bruce blew out a heavy breath and swiped his fingers across the screen.  The outline of the torso of a human body appeared there.  Steve’s full body CT scan that Bruce had ordered.  “You see here?”  He traced a path on the image from Steve’s right hip up through to his stomach.  “This was where he was shot.  This was probably its trajectory.  It’s hard to say when it happened exactly, but the serum definitely tried to deal with the damage.  This would have been a fatal wound for a normal person.  His body tried to wall off the foreign object, tried to keep it contained and repair the damage around it, but it was like…  Like a ticking time bomb, if you’ll forgive the bad analogy.”  Tony didn’t feel like forgiving anything as he stared at the scan.  “My guess?  Steve’s immune system is running on empty.  Months of running and fighting and getting hurt, and weeks of dealing with the infection ran it into the ground.  And this latest brawl he wandered into disrupted his body’s containment of the bacteria from the bullet, and it was like opening a floodgate.  He’s lucky he didn’t die.”

 _Lucky._   If Steve had been trapped by HYDRA, stuck in Europe.  If he hadn’t made it back to the Tower and Tony.  If Tony hadn’t brought him here.  _He could have died._   The realization was shocking and disturbing all at once.  It wasn’t as if that end hadn’t been sticking in Tony’s mind ever since this hell had begun.  Steve had been out there, hunting down monsters who were nursing a decades-old grudge against Captain America that had been made fresh again by the events in DC.  He’d been searching for ghosts and demons.  He’d been stirring hornet’s nest, so it was only natural he’d get stung.  But it had been a thought like that, that enough bee stings could kill someone, but it wasn’t _likely_.  Steve could die doing what he was doing, but it was the same as Tony had felt on any other mission he’d done for SHIELD or any other battle he’d led for the Avengers.  It had never been a looming threat.

Until now.  Tony felt sick.  “Didn’t he…”  He was asking the question tumbling about his head, even though he knew there was no way Bruce could possibly know the answer.  “Didn’t he realize he’d been hurt this bad?”

Bruce frowned apologetically.  “I don’t know.  Did Wilson say anything?”

“No.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me if Steve hid it.  Or maybe he really didn’t notice.  I mean, look at this scan.  And the x-rays we ordered.”  Tony did look.  He didn’t like what he saw at all.  He wasn’t a doctor of course, but he could see the _damage._   There was a lot of it.  New fractures.  Partially healed breaks, surrounded by milky clouds that indicated new bone being built.  His ribs and his collarbones and his arms.  His leg.  His _fingers._   And the CT scan.  Dark areas of blood and traumatized tissues.  “He was walking wounded for weeks and probably constantly in pain because of it.  He might _not_ have realized it happened.  And don’t even try to blame yourself.”  Bruce gave him a sideways glance.  “X-ray glasses are a cool idea but not practical.”

“Always wanted to invent some,” Tony quipped, but it was lame and weak.  He couldn’t stop staring at the evidence of what Steve had done to himself for Barnes, what Tony had _let_ him do every time he’d let him leave New York and resume his hunt.  He would have _never_ let Steve out the door visibly wounded.  Letting him go back out there with a goddamn hole in his abdomen?  Unthinkable.  But all of this was subtle, masked by the healing the serum had managed.  _I never noticed._

Not blaming himself?  Impossible.  Not blaming Wilson and Steve himself?  Even more impossible. And not blaming Barnes?

That bastard could burn in hell.

“The serum isn’t healing him like it should because it’s too taxed, Tony.  There’s no HYDRA poison.  No… mysterious new bioweapon or anything that sinister.  It’s just…”  Bruce let his hands slap against his thighs.  “Too much.  He’s running himself down.  The serum has limits.”

 _Limits._   That wasn’t the serum’s point.  It was supposed to be _limitless._ A super soldier should be capable of endless endurance, beyond feeling exhaustion or pain or anything but the will to fight on.  Steve was just doing what he’d been made to do.  Fighting on with a goddamn .45 caliber bullet lodged in his gut.  Fighting on with all these fractured bones and aged injuries and hurting but that was okay he could just _ignore_ it and keep going!  Feeling sick wasn’t the end of it.  Tony wanted to cry in a way.  He was furious and frightened and so fucking low, just seeing what Steve had been doing to himself because his mission, finding and saving Barnes, was more important than resting and taking care of himself.

It had been a while since he’d really thought about his father, but now Tony did.  He did and he was so fucking angry.  The serum was a gift, but it was a goddamn curse, too.  It was a shitty deal, because all the amazing things it permitted Steve to do, all that strength and power and resilience…  It was so he could be hurt and not fall, be hurt and not feel it, be hurt and _not stop_.  And Steve had been picked by Erskine and his father and the rest of SSR because he was so damn _good_ that, to him, sacrificing himself was the only choice when backs were to the wall.  _Laying down on the wire._   The stuff flowing in his veins, put there by geniuses with the best intentions, _was_ poison _._   Maybe HYDRA should take a fucking page out of the US government’s book on how to _destroy_ people.

Exhausted and tired of thinking, Tony sighed.  None of that mattered much.  They were here and now, and they had to fix this.  “So what do we do?”

Bruce had an answer, of course.  Tony knew what it was before he even opened his mouth because it was the same answer he’d had for weeks.  “Get him to stop searching for Barnes.  At least for a little while.  A month.  Maybe more.”

“You do realize that I have been _trying_ to do just that, right.”  He couldn’t hide his ire.

“He needs rest.  _Real_ rest.  And he needs to eat.  He’s underweight.”  _Underweight?_   Christ, how had he _not_ seen that?  Then it occurred to him.  He _had_.  The gaunt, sallow appearance of Steve’s face, increasingly obvious every time he’d come back.  The lack of energy, again getting worse and worse.  The last time they’d slept together before Steve had left…  That had been weeks ago, but he could remember lying in bed while Steve slumbered, looking at his ribs as he’d breathed, looking but not _seeing_ that they were more prominent than they should have been.  He had noticed it all.  He just hadn’t realized what it was, what it meant, how far Steve was slipping.  He’d chalked it all up to symptoms of obsession, and he knew how to dismiss those.

Bruce shook his head.  “If this goes on much longer, the serum will start metabolizing muscle.  He needs time to recover.  He needs–”

“I _know_ what he needs!”

“Tony, come on.  Don’t do this to yourself.”  Tony got his temper under control, just barely, and turned to his friend.  This sort of stuff always pissed him off.  Bruce hadn’t been here for this, for _any_ of this.  Not when Steve had almost died at Barnes’ hands.  Not in the difficult days after.  Not for the night Steve had told him he was leaving on this fool’s quest.  Not for _every single time_ after that Steve had come back, beaten up and depressed and just a little more worn down.  Not for every argument, where Steve’s guilt over Barnes’ fate and his own damn stubbornness blinded him to everything and everyone.  Not for every moment Tony had spent alone, waiting and brooding and worrying.  No, Bruce was here _now_ and had the gall to tell him things he already knew!  God, that grinded his fucking gears.  “This isn’t your fault.”

That was worse.  Tony really wanted to do something to Bruce, actually, smack his stupid mouth or scream the first insult that came to mind (there were many) or walk out of here, slamming the door behind him to make a show of how angry he was.  To hell with how childish and petulant that was.  He wanted to do any or all of that, but none of it would help Steve.  “Bruce, I have _told_ him all of this.  Multiple times.  He’s not listening to me.”

“What about Wilson?”

“Wilson was there with him!  I’m sure if he could get Steve to listen to reason, he would’ve.  Or Romanoff.  He’s not listening to anyone.  He’s got this – this–”  Tony threw his hands up in exasperation.  “–this fucking guilt complex that’s just crushing him.  He thinks he owes Barnes _everything._   It’s–”

“Not for us to judge,” Bruce finished for him.  Tony glared at him, throwing every bit of the rage he was feeling into it.  Bruce sighed again and shook his head.  “This is an impossible situation, Tony.  Come on.  I know you can see that.  I don’t know much about the Winter Soldier, but I do know the man underneath the monster was captured and tortured and brainwashed and abused.  _For decades._   It’s unimaginable, what HYDRA had to do to him to make him into what he is.  So it’s not so simple as condemning him for his crimes.  If something like that happened to Rhodes, would _you_ be able to just walk away from him without doing everything you could?”

Right now, with Steve recovering from the surgery needed to _save his life,_ this wasn’t what Tony wanted to hear.  “That’s not the point.”

Bruce nodded.  “No, it’s not.  It’s not.  This isn’t the place or the time to argue the merits of saving Barnes.”  _There are no merits,_ Tony thought bitterly.“The point is that the way this is happening can’t continue.  It’s reckless and dangerous and Steve will kill himself.”  _No shit._   Tony wasn’t sure if he wanted to scream or cry.  He settled for neither, shaking to hold in his anger, blinking back tears to restrain his grief, and pressing his forehead into his hand and looking away to hide it all.  That didn’t work.  “Tony…”

“Just fix him?  Please?  I don’t know what do to anymore.”  Bruce’s eyes widened, and Tony shuddered through a breath.  “Christ, Bruce, you know how fucking hard it is for me to admit that.  I thought…  I thought I could just keep putting him back together, and he’d come to his senses sooner or later.  Every time we fight about it…  And we fight.  We fight hard.  We fight.  He leaves.  That’s how it goes.  But I figured eventually we’d fight and he’d realize…” _What he’s throwing away.  What he’s doing to me._   Tony jabbed his teeth into his lip until he drew blood.  _I love him._   He couldn’t say that, _wouldn’t_ say that, even if it was the crux of the problem, the source of the pain thrumming through him with every shivery beat of his heart.

It took a couple of breaths to regain his composure enough to speak.  “This whole thing is so fucked up.  Being on the other side of watching someone self-destruct…”  He gave a twisted laugh, a twisted smile.  “It sucks.”

Bruce gave a little grin.  “You and Steve…  You two are the most stubborn people I’ve ever met.  You give a whole new meaning to the concept of putting on blinders.”  Tony grunted to that.  “And you’re good for each other, I think.  You are.”  Tony looked back, all his anger melting just like that.  Just like when Sam had said Steve loved him, this felt like affirmation.  Sweet, empowering, pleasurable affirmation.  Bruce gave a long breath.  “But it’s not that simple.  When Natasha told me that you guys were…  Well, she was angry she hadn’t seen it before DC.  And she was worried you’d hurt Steve.  I lied before about that.”

“No, really.”  His words were dripping in sarcasm.  “And since when you are suddenly ‘that kind of doctor?’”

Wincing, Bruce went on.  “You haven’t given her much reason to think otherwise.  I mean, you broke things off with Pepper.  Maybe that wasn’t another fling, but your track record–”

“Don’t.  And you think I don’t know that?  I already said I did!”

“Point is: she doesn’t want to see Steve hurt.”

Tony gave an incredulous huff.  “Ironic, seeing as how _I’m_ the one who’s been watching him _get_ hurt over and over again!  If she cares so fucking much, maybe she can–”

Bruce sighed.  “I’m not trying to argue.  Okay?  Stop.  Don’t get so defensive.  You and Steve are _good_ together.”

Tony looked away sharply.  An uncomfortable moment of silence slipped away before Bruce continued in a quieter tone.  “Honestly?  I was worried more about the other way around.  About him hurting you.”  Tony turned back to him at that.  Bruce shrugged weakly.  “Steve’s the best of us, no doubt about that.  But he’s damaged, Tony.  He’s really good at hiding how much he hurts.  Obviously.  And he had it all under wraps before, but that couldn’t last.  The second I heard about what happened in DC, I figured this would break him.  And you’re…  You’ve been hurt a lot.  You guys hit it off when things are easy, but like this?  It’s not always a good combination.”

 _Fuck you,_ Tony thought.  He didn’t say it, though.  He didn’t defend how he felt, what he felt, what Steve felt.  He shouldn’t have to.  He shouldn’t _need_ to.  Furthermore, he was tired of doing it, too, to Romanoff and Wilson and now Banner.  To himself.  This was where they were, here and now, and he was in love with Steve Rogers and _nobody_ was going to convince him there was something wrong with that.

Bruce clasped him on the shoulder, suddenly lighter and very resolute.  “When he wakes up, let me talk to him first, alright?  Maybe coming at it from a more professional standpoint would be better.  He needs to see what he’s doing to himself.”  With that, Bruce stepped from the room.

And Tony darkly shook his head.  _You don’t get it, Bruce.  He sees.  He sees it all.  He just doesn’t care._

* * *

Tony stayed away while Bruce talked to Steve.  It hurt to do it, but he forced himself to wait in the godawful waiting room again.  He paced and fidgeted until it was well nearly midnight.  All of the things that had somewhat made passing the time more tolerable before utterly fell short now.  While he made his rounds, he kept slowing and glancing into Steve’s room every time he passed it.  All he could see were Steve’s feet, covered in a coarse-looking hospital blanket.  Bruce and the doctor were there at the end of the bed, and Bruce was talking.  He was talking every time Tony passed, and Tony knew that Bruce knew he was there.  Bruce gave him wayward glances, and they hinted at all sorts of things.  Warnings.  Concerns.  Frustrations.  All sorts of ridiculous thoughts tortured Tony every time he caught one.  _I should be in there with him.  If the serum’s so depressed, they can have him on pain meds.  Do they have him on pain meds?  He didn’t have to go through the surgery without sedation, and we didn’t realize that, but he can have pain meds now and do they know that?  And what if he’s delirious again?  What if the surgery didn’t work?  What if it upsets him that I’m not there?  He wanted me to stay with him.  What if he needs me?  What’s Bruce saying to him?  I should be in there with him!_

He wasn’t, though.  He was relegated to staying out of it because what he’d been doing wasn’t working.  He was so fucking screwed up at this point, bouncing from emotion to emotion to emotion, that he wasn’t sure he didn’t believe it.  He’d come here after all.  He’d asked the nurses, the doctors, Bruce, _all of them_ to fix Steve.  That sort of necessarily implied he knew he couldn’t do it.  On the other hand, though, the fact that any of them, Bruce least of all, _agreed_ with his assessment of his ability to handle this…  Well, that pissed him off a lot.  Who the hell were any of them to think that?  Who were they to judge him, judge Steve?  This was between him and Steve, and they’d work it out.  All these people needed to do was patch him up and send him home.

Yeah.  Right.

His circular thoughts and equally circular emotions born from them were obnoxious and unbearable.  Around and around they went, much like how he went around and around the waiting room.  None of it ever took him anywhere except where he’d started.  But there was nothing else to do as the minutes dragged on, nothing but be angry and unhappy and impatient.  So that was what he did.

Eventually Bruce did emerge from Steve’s room.  Tony was on the other side of the seating area at the time, and he crossed the distance in record speed.  “Well?” he gasped, glancing over Bruce’s shoulder to the room beyond.  The doctor was still in there, working on what was probably Steve’s chart (he’d have to make sure Steve’s real name was not attached to that), and a few nurses had entered to do whatever they needed to do, change Steve’s IV bags or bandages or whatever else.  Tony still couldn’t see Steve himself, so he turned to Bruce.  “What happened?”

Bruce had that expression he wore sometimes when one of his experiments didn’t go as planned and he couldn’t make heads or tails of the result.  “He didn’t really say anything.”

“What does that mean?  What did you tell him?”

Bruce shrugged.  He seemed sufficiently contrite, like he was only now realizing the situation was more complicated than he’d realized.  “Pretty much what I told you.  I told him that continuing to fight while injured was causing serious stress to his body, stress that the serum can’t overcome.  I showed him the scans, all the damage that wasn’t healing, and explained how that led to where we are now.  And both Doctor Webber and I emphasized that he needed to rest and allow himself ample time to recover.”

Bruce stopped talking like that was it.  That couldn’t be it.  Despite how angry Tony felt over everything, he’d _wanted_ this to work.  “And?” he prompted.

“He didn’t say anything to it.  He asked how much longer he’d have to stay here.  Asked for you, too, a couple of times.”  Tony’s heart leapt and face softened at that.  “But he didn’t acknowledge what I told him.  Not really.  He still seems really out of it.”  He heaved another sigh.  “Maybe it was too soon to push this.  He’s not going to be ready to go home for another twenty-four hours at least, so we can try again tomorrow when he’s more capable of listening.”

It wasn’t the answer for which he’d been hoping, but for some reason it didn’t bother him as much as it probably should have.  Truth be told, he was too tired.  His face probably showed it because Bruce frowned.  “Listen, Tony…  I’m really sorry about what I said before.  It’s not my place to say anything about your relationship with Steve or judge either of you.”  The rest of Tony’s anger was gone on a breath.  Bruce gave a small curl of a smile.  “Who am I call you or Steve or anyone else damaged?  Pot calling kettle.”

Tony managed a smile.  “Couldn’t, uh…  Was trying to think of that saying while I was waiting.  Couldn’t come up with it.”

“Yeah,” Bruce said appreciatively.  He grasped Tony’s shoulder again.  “You’ll figure it out.  You and Steve figured out how to make the team work, how to make all of us work together.  And you figured out how to love each other.”  There it was again.  Sam had said it, and now Banner.  It was still surprising to hear it.  “You’re right.  He comes to you.  So even in dark times like this…  You guys have that.  Love.”  Bruce gave a weary smile.  “That’s more than a lot of people have.”

Tony was still thinking about that long after Bruce promised to come back later and left.  He leaned against the wall outside Steve’s room, mind gone with it, with everything that had happened, as he watched the nurses finish up what they were doing.  When they were done and heading out, he finally slipped inside.

Steve had fallen asleep again.  He looked a little pale yet, his eyes a tad sunken, but Tony could see from the monitors surrounding the bed that he was better.  His heartrate was nice and steady.  He was breathing easy.  His blood pressure was good and the fever was low grade.  Assured by the numbers, he came even closer.  Someone had pulled a chair up beside the bed, and he didn’t hesitate beyond a moment to sit in it.  If the people here wanted to expose their relationship to the media, they could certainly do it.  They had enough incriminating evidence at this point to maybe destroy them both.

However, Tony felt oddly safe.  Maybe he shouldn’t have, but he did.  The fact that Steve looked so peaceful probably factored into it.  He was serene and untroubled for the first time in forever.  He was sleeping a healing sleep, something pure and restorative that was far from the nightmares and insomnia Tony had gotten used to seeing.  This was alright, good even.  Tony reached onto the bed and took Steve’s hand.  His skin was dry and warm.  The bruises and scrapes were fading.  Tony stared at it a moment, rubbing his thumbs over Steve’s knuckles.  Then he sighed heavily, letting all the weariness suck him down.  All the pain and grief he’d been hiding.  All the fear and doubt.  This was hard, harder in a way than it had been when Killian had kidnapped Pepper.  At least Tony had known the answers then.  Stop the bad guy, save his loved one, and do the right thing.  Who was the bad guy here?  _Barnes._  He could only delude himself so much that it was that simple.  And how could he save Steve when part of their enemy was Steve himself?  Trite as that sounded, Tony was seeing more and more it was sadly true.

All of that led to this: he didn’t know _what_ the right thing was anymore.

Feeling stupid and inadequate, he swallowed thickly and blurted out whatever came to mind.  “So rough day, huh?”  Steve didn’t answer, breathing deeply, and his hand was limp in Tony’s.  “I mean, I figured when you showed up last night that things were going to end up bad, but I wasn’t really anticipating this.  I thought we’d do our normal.  What was wrong with that, huh?  The normal does have its good parts.  The sex is good, isn’t it?”  Silence.  “Well, I think so.  And the post-coital snuggling and the occasional joke and sometimes you even smiled.  It was always that tired, reluctant smile you have.  But it was still a smile, so I figured it couldn’t be all bad.”  Nothing.  Tony shook his head.  His eyes were burning.  “Guess that wasn’t enough this time.  Figures.  You’re Captain America.  No halfway with you.  Should have known you’d have to go that extra mile, right?  Right?  When I said you didn’t need to kill yourself to find him, I should have known you’d treat that like a challenge.”

Steve _still_ didn’t answer, didn’t move, didn’t wake.  Frustration bubbled up inside Tony until he was softly heaving a sob and dropping his face into Steve’s hand.  “You bastard.”  His eyes were wet all the sudden and his lips were raw and chapped from chewing them, but the touch of Steve’s palm to his cheek was unduly soothing, like a sweet balm if he could be forgiven the metaphor.  _Addiction._   Maybe that was more suitable.  He gave a rough laugh.  “I can’t do this anymore, Steve.  I can’t.  You can’t do this to me.  You almost…  You would’ve…”  He couldn’t bear to think it.  _“No more!”_

He sobbed.  For a while, that was all he did.  Sobbed and let himself feel everything he’d been trying to hold back and ignore and deny.  There was no reason to keep it contained at this point.  Minutes passed.  Maybe hours.  He couldn’t be sure and he didn’t care.  He kept his head on Steve’s bed, his face pressed into Steve’s hand, his body bent with sorrow and exhaustion.  It was creeping in and pulling him down, and he let it.  Before he realized it, he was half asleep and dreaming and mumbling and remembering.  “You can’t do this to me.  You can’t…  You can’t…  Please don’t go…”

_“Please don’t go!  Steve?  Steve!  Christ, fucking stop and listen to me!”_

Steve hadn’t stopped.  This was where it had all started, this moment on a warm summer morning in their bedroom.  The night before had been nice, despite how Steve had been brooding and grieving and itching for action since he’d recovered.  They’d had a nice dinner, talked about something other than HYDRA and the Winter Soldier for the first time in forever (although that had loomed in the corner like the eight hundred pound goddamn elephant), gone to bed happy.  Made love.  Steve always preferred to call it that, not having sex or fucking or anything that meaningless or crude.  He’d gotten Tony to call it that, too, all too willingly because _nothing_ about Steve was meaningless.  Everything had been as perfect as it could have been given how their world had nearly fallen apart.

But there was when and where it had toppled.  Steve’s phone had beeped on the bedside table.  Tony had slept through that, slept through Steve getting up, disappearing into the shower.  But he’d woken eventually, and he had to the sight of Steve packing.  _No._ He’d grabbed his clothes – a couple of spare pairs of jeans and some of his shirts – and stuffed them into his bag.  They hadn’t even been the nice shirts Tony had bought him.  These had been the ones he’d brought with him from DC whenever he’d come and stayed at the Tower, the ones Tony had jokingly threatened to burn if he kept insisting on wearing cheap crap like that.  Steve hadn’t been gentle about it, smooshing everything inside the bag as quickly as possible before rushing to the bathroom to get his toiletries.  _“I don’t have a choice, Tony,”_ he’d said as he passed.  _“I have to do this.”_

Even with the fog in his head, Tony could remember exactly how that felt.  The confusion.  The inkling sense of betrayal.  _“Have to do what?  You’re barely on your feet again!  You need more time to–”_

 _“I’m fine,”_ had been the brusque response.  _“It’s been two weeks.”_

 _“Yeah,_ only _two weeks since you got out of the hospital.  Two piddling weeks!  The docs said you should be grounded for a month at least, maybe longer, and now you’re–”_

_“Nat just messaged me.  They called her to testify, so she’s back in DC.  And she’s got the file for me.”_

Exasperation had hurt like a buzzing swarm of stinging bees.  Tony had bitten his lip to control his rage, shaking his head to the shadows of the bedroom that were being blasted by the light of a new day.  _“I told her not to do that.”_

The glare Steve had given him had been nothing short of icy.  Betrayal went both ways, it seemed.  _“You told her–”_

_“Yes!  Because I didn’t want you doing this until you were better!  You’re not better!”_

_“I think I can make my own decisions about that,”_ Steve had spat, doing nothing now to hide his own anger.  _“I have to get down there.”_

Tony had launched from the bed to grab his arm.  There wasn’t much he could do to stop Steve, not if Steve wanted to go.  Steve was stronger and bigger.  But Steve hadn’t just wrenched away, probably out of respect for Tony, out of _love_ , and Tony had been able to haul him closer.  _“Please…  I don’t want you to do this.”_

 _“He’s my friend,”_ Steve had reminded.  As if they’d needed the reminder.  _“And he’s out there alone.  He’s lost.  I have to find him.  I owe him that.”_

That had been so upsetting.  _“He put you in the fucking ICU!  Don’t you remember that?  He shot you four times, stabbed you, let you fall in the river!  You almost drowned!”_

Steve had grimaced, and not just because Tony had curled his fingers into his bicep hard enough to gouge him with his nails.  He always did when Tony (or anyone else) threw the truth in his face.  It was a sign of resignation, like he couldn’t deny the facts so he was just going to boldly ignore them.  _“He pulled me out.”_

Tony had been in no mood for that bullshit.  Not with the memory of the man he loved on life support still vividly fresh most times he closed his eyes.  Even though he hadn’t been able to recognize exactly how he felt, unable to put that word – _love_ – to it, the pain had been sharp and undeniable and so vicious.  _“Remind me to send him a fucking thank you card for being such a hero.”_

That had been the wrong thing to say.  Any semblance of civility had just up and vanished.  Steve had yanked away and stalked to the bathroom.  _“Go to hell, Tony.”_

Tony had never known when to quit.  He’d followed doggedly.  _“Steve, think about what you’re doing!  For Christ’s sake!  You don’t know him anymore.  He’s not your best friend from way back.  He’s a murderer!  He’s killed dozens of people, and those are just the ones we know about!  If he’d gotten his way, half the eastern seaboard would’ve been wiped out!  You can’t just leave like this to find him.  You don’t owe him anything.  You don’t owe him your life!  You don’t have to fight for him or fucking kill yourself for him!  He’s not worth it!”_

Steve had whirled, eyes fiery and full of hurt.  _“You don’t know anything about him,”_ he’d hissed right into Tony’s face, _“and you don’t know how I feel.”_

 _“I know you think you can save him,”_ Tony had returned, barely reeling in his temper.  He’d held Steve’s gaze and refused to look away first.  _“You can’t.  He hurt you so bad, Steve, and he didn’t stop.  He didn’t even know you.  What makes you think he won’t hurt you again even if you can find him?”_

 _“He won’t.”_   Steve had pulled away again and snatched his toiletries off the counter.  He’d been visibly _making_ himself certain.  Putting up goddamn _blinders._   He’d thrown the smaller bag with the rest of his things before zipping it all up.  _“He won’t.”_

 _“You can’t know that!”_   Steve had said nothing to that, shuddering through a breath.  It was a subtle thing, a crack in his resolve, and Tony shouldn’t have felt so happy to see it.  _“And even if you can find him, what do you think will happen?  It’ll just be okay?  You can just bring him back and fix him?”_

_“I don’t know.”_

_“Damn it, Steve–”_

_“I’ll figure that out when I get to it.”_ He’d grabbed for his leather jacket where it had been draped over the back of Tony’s chair.  That leather jacket.  Tony had given it to him months ago, right after they’d started their relationship.  Maybe it had been shallow and stupid to buy Steve gifts, but he had.  He had because he had money and he’d wanted to spend it on someone who deserved to experience luxury and wealth and extravagance.  He had because he wanted Steve with him, and it hadn’t been about buying Steve’s affection, but it had felt _so damn good_ to shower Steve in what he could provide.  Right then it made him feel used.  Abandoned.  _Inadequate._

Steve had put the coat on.  And he’d grabbed his shield from where it had rested against the wall by the dresser since they’d come home from DC two weeks ago.  He’d turned to face Tony, and there’d been a glimmer of tears in his eyes.  Tony had felt the same in his own.  _“Don’t make this harder,”_ Steve had whispered.  _“Please.  It’s…  I need you to understand.  I have to try.  Whatever it takes to save him, I have to do it.  I can’t let him down.”_

The anger had burned harshly.  _“But you can let me down.”_

Steve had sighed and shouldered his bag.  That glimmer had been bright, blisteringly so when the morning sun had caught Steve’s eyes.  Helplessness.  Hurt.  Being _torn._   Tony hadn’t let him see those things at the time.  He’d made himself drown in his anger, because doing anything else was just too damn painful.  _Betrayal and abandonment._ A couple steps had brought Steve closer.  And closer.  For a second, Tony had wondered if he’d convinced him to stop.  _Stay._

But he hadn’t stopped.  He hadn’t stayed.  He’d walked right past Tony and headed out of the bedroom without a kiss, without a promise to return.  _Nothing._

There was something now.  A hand on his head, the comforting weight of it.  Fingers gently stroking through his hair.  A voice, weak and raspy.  “Tony?”  Tony opened his eyes and lifted his head.  His neck immediately protested with stiffness and pain.  He’d fallen asleep slumped on Steve’s hospital bed.  That was Steve’s hand in his hair.  And Steve’s voice.  “Tony…”

“Steve?”  He sounded like death warmed over.  They both did.  But as he looked up and focused, he saw Steve was awake.  Steve’s hazy blue eyes focused on him, and his dry lips twisted into a half an apologetic grin.  Tony couldn’t help but smile himself.  “Steve.”

“Hey,” Steve whispered.

Tony sat up more fully, despite how much it hurt.  His heart was pounding, and he felt more alive than he had for _weeks_.  “Hey.”  He jumped into action, coherent thought thankfully flooding his head, hands thankfully steady.  Scrambling for a pitcher of water the nurses left, he poured a cup and put a straw in it before returning to Steve’s side.  “Here.  Let me…”  He inclined the bed more, bringing the straw to Steve’s lips.  “There.”

Steve took a couple small sips before falling back into the pillows with a gasp.  Tony watched him carefully, worried and frightened and so tentative as he took Steve’s hand again.  After a few seconds spent with Steve trying to slow his breathing, Tony finally asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.  Yeah.”  Steve closed his eyes again.  “’m sorry.”

“Again with that?”

“Really mean it,” Steve murmured.

Tony swept his thumb over Steve’s knuckles.  “I know you do.  And you’re forgiven.”

Steve smiled faintly.  “Not sure I deserve it.”

“I think I can make my own decisions about that,” Tony lightly quipped, and Steve’s smile got larger.  Tony could see how tired he was, how his body was struggling to heal his wounds.  With rest, it would.  With rest, the serum could do anything, fix anything.  “Sleep.  I’ll stay with you.”

Steve seemed relieved.  Even in this brief moment of consciousness, Tony could tell he was better.  More himself again.  Stabilizing and recovering and returning to the man he was.  It was such a relief, and Tony couldn’t help but smile more.  “Tony?”

“What?”

“I – I want what you said.  Before.”

Tony slipped his fingers lightly into Steve’s hair again, gently combing out the tangles.  He’d said so much over the last few hours, babbling and venting and trying so hard to be strong.  “What was that?”

Steve’s eyes slipped shut, but he nuzzled just a bit into Tony’s chest where he stood beside the bed.  “I want to go home.  Like you said.”  Tony paused in petting him, so damn shocked and touched and…   _Thank God.  Thank God._   “Home with you.  Stay with you.”

This wouldn’t be the end of it.  Nothing was that easy or simple.  In the long run, just as it had been before, this would be nothing.

But, here and now, it was _everything._ Tony lowered himself a bit so he could press a kiss to Steve’s forehead and then his lips.  It was chaste and tender and tasting of tears and brimming with relief.  “Okay,” he whispered.  “Okay.  If home is where you want to go, then home is where we’ll go.  Together.”


	5. Chapter 5

_“And remember when I moved in you?_  
_The holy dark was moving, too._  
_And every breath we drew was Hallelujah.”_  
– Rufus Wainwright, “Hallelujah”

_Two weeks later_

When Tony woke up, the bed was empty except for him, and just for a fleeting second, he feared he’d dreamed it all.

But, no, Steve’s side was still warm.  And Steve’s stuff was still here, his discarded jeans from the day before spilling off the end of the California king to the floor and his shirt over by the door where Tony had torn it off him last night and his shoes, one tipped by the side of the bed and one way over by the seating area because Steve had been less than careful in kicking them off.  And his other stuff, his seemingly forgotten bookbag and his shield and his jacket, were by the dresser, untouched from when Tony had moved them there after they’d come back from the hospital.  And the shower was running in the bathroom.  So he was here.  It hadn’t been a dream at all.

Tony sagged back into the pillows and let himself relax completely.  _Steve’s still here._

These last days had been nothing short of… _wonderful_ , and Tony didn’t call things something that pathetically trite without good reason.  He couldn’t recall being this happy, this content and satisfied and calm, in a very long time.  Maybe not since he and Steve had first starting seeing each other, months and months ago before SHIELD had dragged Steve down to DC more permanently and before he’d been drawn into their hell.  This had been so damn nice.  The first days after coming back Steve had been too weak to do much of anything.  Bruce had helped Tony get him settled back at the Tower, and Steve hadn’t even complained about their collective mother hen-ing (Tony wasn’t blind to what his constant hovering and constant running to wait on Steve without him even asking and constant fretting every little detail of Steve’s comfort meant.  And he didn’t give a shit.  Steve had suffered enough in his life, so he deserved to be coddled and cared for and to hell with it being ridiculous).  Once Banner had been satisfied Steve was in good hands, that he was convalescing comfortably with his body well on the way to recovery from all the injuries he’d sustained and the surgery, he’d left.

Truth be told, Tony had been glad to see him go.  He hadn’t felt comfortable around Bruce since they’d left the hospital, and not just because he wanted Steve to himself basically.  As the nightmare grew hazier and more distant, the things Bruce had said were starting not to sit well with him.  Who the hell was he (or Natasha or _anyone_ ) to judge Tony or Steve or their relationship?  It didn’t matter that Bruce had basically confessed his opinions were flawed and inappropriate; it was like Tony had heard said opinions, and they couldn’t be unheard.  He felt a bit betrayed.  Natasha not liking him…  Well, he expected that (though he also expected her to either be direct or more discreet about it, not this hinting and intimating and suggesting and pussy-footing bullshit.  Not talking about how much she disapproved with Bruce of all people).  But Bruce himself?  Bruce was _Tony’s_ friend, first and foremost, and him stamping some sort of label on Tony’s relationship with Steve as damaged or fundamentally doomed to failure…  Tony didn’t care if that was true.  It was _horse shit_ for Bruce to do it.

So it had been hard to be the way he wanted to be around Steve until Bruce had left because everything had been so tense and awkward and unfulfilling.  But once Banner had departed… well, the wonderful part had set in.  Tony had done the mother-hen thing, the nursemaid thing, and that had been so ridiculously satisfying.  He’d helped Steve sleep, helped him wash and dress, helped him through the pain, brought him food and drinks and anything his heart desired (with Steve protesting once or twice but not fervently enough to get Tony to stop).  There’d been so much contentment in that, in taking care of Steve.  Once the first couple days had been through and Steve had been on his feet again, they’d just _slipped_ so easily and perfectly right back into everything being normal between them.  The _good_ normal.  The normal from before SHIELD had gone down.  They’d hardly left the penthouse.  Tony was spending a small fortune on take-out, but every meal had been huge and the best of the best, and he’d hovered and coaxed Steve into eating and eating to supply the serum the energy it required to heal him.  No more of this wasting away shit.  He’d said that, and Steve hadn’t argued, instead delving more and more into enjoying it all like a starving man realizing a bite of food was only the promise to a whole, luscious meal rather than a brief tease.  Again, Tony felt infinitely pleased just watching the younger man eat and feed his nutrient-starved body.  And he felt so peaceful just lying in bed with Steve and watching him nap, staring at him and running his fingers through his hair and just holding him as he peacefully slumbered.  And he felt so damn _good_ being close to Steve and touching Steve, everything from playful punches to cuddling close to lounging on him in front of the television to what they’d been doing more recently.

Like last night.

Tony wasn’t the sort to bask in feeling good, but he was.  He was feeling good and really basking in it.  It had been so long since they’d been like this, _happy_ , which was pretty damn ironic considering how bad things had had to become to get here.  Still, he wasn’t going to complain.  They’d spent the last couple weeks like friends and lovers instead of stressed teammates or (worse) combatants.  Nothing bad had come out of the hospital mess; the doctors and nurses had kept quiet, so the media had never gotten wind of Steve being hurt (or of them being lovers).  And there’d been no talk of Barnes, no talk of SHIELD, no talk of HYDRA.  No mention _at all_ of all the awful shit that had inexplicably led them to this odd state of seemingly perpetual bliss.  Tony wasn’t stupid.  It wasn’t as if any of the bad stuff was gone.  No one had waved a magic wand and made the last few months simply disappear, even if the serum was slowly beginning to erase the signs of them from Steve’s body.  No one had undone all the damage he’d done to himself, to his heart and his soul, and all the damage they’d done to each other.  No one _could_ do that.

But damn if it wasn’t nice to _think_ it was possible.  He was a master at deluding himself, or so Pepper kept telling him, so he could totally buy into the illusion that it was all over, or at least far, far on the back burner.  He could totally immerse himself and _bask_ like he was now _._   Enjoy it to the fullest.  No work.  No troubles.  No concerns.  He hadn’t even really tinkered, which was crazy in and of itself, and he’d hidden certain things he probably shouldn’t have hid.  Certain findings.  Willfully.  Maybe purposefully.  Yeah, that was going to come back and bite him in the ass, but he couldn’t care.

He couldn’t care because these last few days they’d done nothing but catch up on Steve’s never-ending list of things he hadn’t yet seen or heard or read.  They’d watched a bunch of old _Star Trek_ and _Twilight Zone_ episodes, a marathon practically.  They’d played video games (Steve was apparently godawful at _Call of Duty_ – who knew, right?).  They’d lounged and wasted time and played and screwed around and talked about _stuff._   Not anything important.  Pop culture and sports and life in general.  Tony blathered on about science, and Steve followed along as much as he could (which was surprisingly a lot).  Steve went on about art, about which Tony couldn’t have cared less except for the fact that Steve loved it and Steve’s eyes lit up when he was explaining this technique or that approach or how one picture could really be worth a thousand words.  Conversation was coming easy again, so easy, just like it had been before, and it was so _nice_.

And Steve was smiling.  For real smiling.  That hadn’t happened all the other times he’d come back, even on those few good days between the patching up and the inevitable fight.  He was _smiling_ , freed from the weight of his problems and troubles for the first time in what felt like forever.  There was light in his eyes when he did, light emerging from all those shadows, and Tony felt hope just seeing that.  Just hearing Steve’s voice, freer and unburdened.  Just watching him come back to life.

So it was good.  It was _really_ good.

 _Basking._   He smiled to himself, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling, dragging a hand up and down his sternum where the scars from the arc reactor were, where Steve had rested his head last night before falling asleep.  Tony could barely hear the hiss of the shower and Steve humming.  It was Led Zeppelin.  “Stairway to Heaven”.  Tony couldn’t help but grin more, and he pulled the sheets and duvet aside to get up.  He crept into the bathroom.  Steam was filling the spacious area, billowing from the top of the huge shower where the multiple jets were spraying.  The shower door was fogged up so there wasn’t much to see beyond a blur of pale flesh.  Opening it, he stepped inside.

Steve was mostly covered in suds.  Water was cascading over his body from the showerhead right above him, hitting the back of his neck and sluicing down his shoulders and back to his ass.  Tony couldn’t help but spend a second appreciating the view, and then he couldn’t help sauntering inside to grab said ass and herd Steve against the tiled wall a little.  “Here’s your stairway,” he purred in Steve’s ear.

Steve laughed, pushing back gently.  “That’s really terrible.”

Tony nipped at his earlobe and caressed Steve’s chest, sliding through the water and soap over miles of hard muscles.  Hard and strong and filled out and perfect again.  “You didn’t think it was last night.”

“That’s even worse,” Steve replied.  Tony hooked a possessive arm around his stomach, pulling him back so he could feel just how much he wanted him (and how quickly he’d gone from the usual morning interest to full steam ahead, but seeing Steve like this…  Well, the effect was instantaneous and rather undeniable).  Steve indulged him in a kiss, turning his head so Tony could capture his lips in a hungry, unbridled attempt to devour him. Tony’s hands started wandering around Steve’s waist to his front, going lower of course, and Steve gave half a gasp and pulled away closer to the wall.  “Can’t,” he panted.

Tony squeezed him and pushed his hips into Steve’s rear.  “Can,” he corrected.  “And should.”

“What, last night wasn’t enough?” Steve asked.  His voice twisted in that way Tony had long come to love, shaking just a bit with mounting desire and fading control.  He braced his hands against the shower wall for leverage to push back a little as Tony teased.

And he teased.  Squeezed Steve hard and stroked him harder.  There was nothing quite so divine as watching Steve come apart under his hands.  He had so much experience, but there was something so different about Steve.  Something better and perfect and pure in a sense.  They’d been sleeping together for months, but every time had just a taste of that first time, when seeing Steve find pleasure like that, like he’d never known he could experience anything so good before, had awakened something in Tony that was just a bit primal and possessive.  Like making Steve feel that way was a sacred duty, and now he was bound to it in a way he’d never cared to be for anyone else.  There was also that irritating, self-deprecating voice which reminded him that _Steve didn’t know better,_ but fuck that voice.  He had this, all of this, _Captain America,_ grinding his ass back into his crotch, and he wasn’t stupid or arrogant enough not to realize that made him one lucky son of a bitch.

So was last night enough?  Would anything _ever_ be enough?  “Never,” he breathed, hot and wet in Steve’s ear.  “Not with you.”

He felt Steve’s smile.  “Nice.”  That was said sarcastically, but Tony knew he was touched.  Touched and _being_ touched.  Tony got a little firmer in his ministrations, gripping Steve’s hip to hold him still, seeking another kiss.  Steve grunted a little in protest but didn’t stop him, instead reaching back to weave his fingers through Tony’s half sodden hair and pull him closer.  It hurt a little; sometimes Steve lost control of his strength like this.  It was one of the other reasons Tony usually called the shots, that Tony pitched and Steve received, so to speak.  That was what they’d done the first time and every time since.  Though Steve had never said it, Tony was fairly certain he was concerned he’d hurt him or some such nonsense (although, to be fair, Tony wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t.  But since when had the threat of getting hurt ever stopped him from doing something he wanted?).  This was another of the many things they just didn’t talk about.  That first night, Tony had suggested he’d be on top because Steve had been as nervous and skittish as a race horse, and that was just the way it had been since.  They never discussed it.

And that was fine.  Tony didn’t think there would ever be anything _ever_ that would make him not want to have Steve this way.  There was something mildly empowering and hugely intoxicating about it, about Steve in all of his strength and size and perfection underneath him.  It made Tony feel larger than life, and he was loath to admit that he was addicted to that, to the way Steve felt inside and out, to the way Steve took him in like it was too much yet he needed so much more, to the rush of it all.  It wasn’t even just the power of having Captain America under him.  It was how Steve trusted him like this, how Steve _let_ him have him like this.  That was incredible, and Tony was only beginning to realize now how much that meant to him.

Also, it was weird that they wrestled for dominance in pretty much every other aspect of their lives _but_ here, where Tony easily took it.  Where Steve practically ceded it, threw it at Tony with a desire that Tony take it.  Tony always did.  It was nice to be on top.  _Holy shit, that was bad._

“Tony?”

Tony had drifted.  _Drifted_ while doing this.  What the hell was he coming to?  He snapped back to it, kissing Steve ravenously and squeezing harder and crowding Steve even more into the shower wall.  Steve moaned into his mouth, tipping his head back and shivering.  The almost-scalding water blasted Tony in the face, but he didn’t stop, lowering his mouth into the side of Steve’s neck and kissing and sucking and biting.  “Tony…”  That was a hoarse rasp laden with desire.  “Really.  We can’t do this now.  I have–”

“Nothing more important to do than me,” Tony finished for him.

“Somehow even worse,” Steve groaned, leaning more into the wall.  “Oh, hell.”

“Worser.”  Steve gave a ragged cry as Tony stopped teasing and started working a lot harder to get him off.  “Worser is the word you’re looking for,” he husked, kissing the side of Steve’s neck again.

Steve grunted, trembling more.  “Not a real word.”

Tony grinned into Steve’s shoulder.  They’d done this enough times – so many times – that he knew _exactly_ what to do to get Steve there and get him there fast.  He was proficient at it now.  It helped that the serum made Steve so sensitive.  Steve was breathing quickly now in a way he never did when he fought, legs stiff and body trembling but so hot and slick and pliant under Tony’s hands and lips.  Tony curled his mouth into a grin, so damn pleased with himself, when he pushed Steve right over the edge and left him groaning and panting and shaking against the tiles, the hot water blasting over them both.  He let Steve have the moment, let him breathe and shiver through the aftershocks, before pulling him over to the tiled bench.

It didn’t take much, soapy fingers (which probably stung like hell, but Steve didn’t complain and batted Tony’s hand away from the little tube of lube that was up by the shampoo) and a little effort, to get Steve ready again.  The serum made it a challenge sometimes, and patience wasn’t always Tony’s virtue, but he thought Steve had started to lie about it hurting just because he liked it that way, liked the burn of it or the ache or something.  He didn’t always hide his grimace but it never lasted, melting into pleasure in short order, and Tony wondered not for the first time if this was the state of mind Steve was in now, that pain and pleasure were indistinct and interchangeable to him, or that feeling something hurt was better than feeling nothing at all.  Tony knew those sorts of feelings all too well, and he figured he should probably be more concerned that Steve could be suffering with that sort of depression (could be?  _Was_ ).  But he wasn’t concerned beyond a few fleeting thoughts.  Not like this.  Not with what Steve was offering, straddled across his lap like this, tight and hot around him as Tony pushed up inside him.  Not with Steve doing the work of it all and yet keeping his weight off Tony like it might crush him if he pressed down any harder than he was.

No, Steve didn’t fuck.  He made love, this time like every time, arms around Tony’s neck, lips close to his, breathing into his mouth in a shivery gust.  Tony clung too, taken aback this time _like every time_ at just how blue Steve’s eyes were and how open he was and how much he was willing to give.  He didn’t last long, _not like this_ , not with Steve coaxing him to take what he wanted with every roll of his hips.  Still, he got a hand around Steve between them, his other on Steve’s waist to guide him, and brought them both to the edge.  There weren’t words, just the hiss of the shower, the wet sound of skin on skin, fast breaths and grunts and whines.   Tony liked this moment.  No matter how far gone he was, he always made himself come back just a bit, pull back so he could see Steve like this.  Steve’s long lashes were pressed lightly closed, his reddened lips parted as he breathed and chewed them and then breathed again like he couldn’t decide which to do, his head tipped back as he rocked himself up and down on Tony’s lap and took Tony again and again as deep as he could.  It wasn’t hard, and it wasn’t forced, and in this moment, the moment where he could see Steve unraveling and losing himself, it always felt perfect.  That was trite, immature bullshit, but he indulged in it because it felt so fucking good to think it, as good as Steve felt and as good as Steve was.  So Tony watched him, stroked him, steadied him, because seeing Steve like this was divine and he wanted it to last, wanted to keep him right here where he didn’t seem to know if it was too much or not enough, where he didn’t seem to know if it was okay to let go but he was so close that there wasn’t going to be a choice.  This was where Tony pushed and Tony controlled and Tony _gave_ because he could give too and _God he wanted to give Steve everything…_

Steve got there first, of course.  Tony always made sure of that, which he hadn’t been in the habit of doing before or with anyone else.  He liked to watch this, too, watch Steve reach his peak.  He did it now through half-lidded eyes, trying to work Steve through it with his own desires burning hot inside him.  The tight clench around him proved too much, and his release burst over him so fast and hard that he threw his head back in pleasure.  He would have smacked into the shower wall if Steve hadn’t had his hand there, tangled in Tony’s hair.  He wasn’t sure he would have felt the pain even if he had.

They came back to themselves slowly.  The steam was thick, a fog cradling them, the endless supply of hot water in the Tower still spraying them and creating quite the sauna.  Tony was overly hot, sweat mingling with the vapor against his skin, but so gloriously spent and satisfied.  He rubbed his hands up and down Steve’s back, feeling muscles ripple and Steve shiver just a bit.  Steve’s face was buried in the nape of his neck, his mouth working there as he breathed.  Those plush lips curled into a smile, and Tony smiled into Steve’s shoulder too and held tight and let them enjoy this.

Eventually Steve got up and off him.  He groaned softly, gracelessly moving to Tony’s side on the bench and slumping there.  Tony turned a bit to kiss him, lazily and sloppily.  Steve responded in kind, and they stayed like that until they caught their breaths.

Tony was drifting, stroking Steve’s hip, kissing and nibbling, looking at the mess on both of them and thinking haphazardly that Steve needed another wash (one that he’d be more than happy to provide), when Steve sighed and moved away a bit.  He sat up, leaning back until his head thudded against the tile.  Now Tony got a really good look at him.  He was so much _better_.  His muscle definition had very quickly returned with all the rest and good food.  The injuries were gone, most the lacerations and bruises completely healed, the deepest (the surgical wound and the like) nothing more than faint lines and blemishes.  His skin was healthy again, aglow with vitality, and he looked like the man he had been before Barnes had shown up in his life.  Tony saw the scars, though.  He saw them in Steve’s eyes sometimes, hazy now where they’d been a constant presence before.  These were the burdens he was still keeping quiet.  More things they weren’t talking about.

He decided to keep it that way.  _Master of delusion._   He grasped Steve’s thigh and pushed himself off the bench, sliding between the other man’s legs.  “I’m thinking…” he said in a low purr against Steve’s right knee as he kissed and teased.  He knew Steve was a tad ticklish there.  “I’m thinking we go back to bed.  Spend the day there.  Order a ridiculous ton of Thai.  Watch TV in bed.  Maybe try some new things.  Maybe…”

“Nat’s coming.”

Tony stopped dead in his tracks, lifting his head and looking up at the other man.  _Fuck._

Steve smiled weakly.  “She texted me about an hour ago.  She’ll be here in thirty.”  He gave an apologetic grin, sitting up more fully.  “That’s why I was saying we shouldn’t…”  He tried to repair it.  “Maybe later for those new things?”

Tony managed an apologetic grin of his own, even though the shock was leaving him cold and aching now.  “Sure.”  Steve leaned forward to kiss him, not waiting for him to kiss back before getting up and walking back to the shower heads to wash quickly.  It took some doing for Tony to move.  And it took some doing to don some sort of smile for Steve as Steve pulled him closer in the water.  If Steve noticed he was faking, he didn’t show it, didn’t say anything.  Maybe he hadn’t noticed.  If that was the case, Tony figured he deserved a goddamn Academy Award.

* * *

Steve talked to her first.  Tony was more than happy to let Steve have that.  He holed himself up in his workshop for the first time in a couple weeks, finding something to distract him while he waited for her to leave.  It definitely went without saying, but Tony didn’t want her here.  He didn’t want _any_ of them here.  She hadn’t come alone apparently.  No, apparently Wilson and Barton were with her.  They’d stopped here on their way to Europe to hunt down Loki’s scepter, stopped to see how Steve was doing.  Tony had of course texted Sam after Steve had stabilized in the hospital two weeks ago.  Doing anything other than that had felt undeniably wrong, so off the message had gone.  Sam had immediately replied, and Tony had practically been able to read his terror and worry through those three simple words: _“I’m coming back.”_   And Tony had answered as fast as his thumbs could type: _“Don’t.  I’ve got it.  He’s fine.”_   It had taken Sam some time to respond, and Tony had nervously waited, watching Steve sleep in the hospital bed and praying nothing and no one would invade their space now that he had Steve back and _wanting_ to come home with him.  Nothing had.  _“Alright.  Will call tomorrow.”_

Sam had called tomorrow.  And the day after.  And the day after that.  Every day since the hospital, and Steve had taken over talking to him.  Tony had listened in at first, when Steve had been confined to their bed.  He probably shouldn’t have, probably should have left the room to let Steve have privacy, but he hadn’t, and Steve had never complained.  Predictably the conversations had been a lot about Steve getting better, how Steve was doing, some definite apologizing on Sam’s part mixed with a whole lot of “not your fault”ing on Steve’s part, then a load of what Tony surmised was “how could you be so goddamn stupid” from Sam met with a ton of Steve apologizing and on it went.  Pretty much what Tony expected.  As soon as Steve had been well enough to be up and about, he’d taken his calls in privacy.  Looking back on it now, those little jabs of jealous insecurity seemed really minor (and stupid, but he wasn’t going to admit that).  Steve was his own person.  He was certainly _allowed_ to have friends.  The mere fact he was thinking that _now_ as Steve met with said friends was a testament to how damn moronic he was.  But this whole previous week had been such a dream, just the two of them, no one else and no problems, no fights or tensions or fears.  No threat of judgment.  Right now… he felt like the enemy was encroaching on his turf.

“Real fucking mature,” he grumbled to himself.  One of many real fucking mature things he’d done recently.  At least this one was bothering him because it was so stupid and childish.  The other big one…  Tony set down his screwdriver, looking up from the repulsor jet he’d been half-heartedly pulling apart.  He chewed the soft flesh of his lower lip, staring morosely at nothing.  It was there in the back of his mind, a whole lot of guilt.  In the beginning, when Steve had been newly back and in need of so much help, Tony hadn’t questioned at all that what he’d done had been the right thing to do.  There hadn’t been much choice.  Now he longed for the simplicity of that certainty, because every day since the guilt had buzzed inside him like a swarm of flies around carrion.  It had buzzed louder and louder, and he’d had a harder and harder time ignoring it.  This hadn’t been about getting Steve back on his feet, not for days, not like it had been at the start.  This hadn’t been about removing distractions or temptations o worries.  No, this was purely selfish, and he knew it.  “Real fucking mature.”

“Sir?” JARVIS prompted.

Tony sighed and pushed himself away from his workbench.  He rolled across the room on his stool, heading to the computer terminal behind him.  “J…”

“Sir.”

Jesus, he shouldn’t.  And he felt so damn guilty, ashamed really, but he couldn’t help himself.  He told himself he’d done far worse things than this, drinking too much and not helping when he could and turning a blind eye to the atrocities his weapons were causing, but none of that _felt_ as bad as this.  He breathed out again, not fighting or rationalizing even as the disgust settled deep in his gut like a lead weight.  “Bring it up.”

And JARVIS, of course, had to be an asshole about it.  “Bring what up, sir?”

Tony gritted his teeth.  “You know what.”

The AI played dumb a moment, making some bullshit request that Tony be more specific, before faking a dawning realization.  Tony was forced to wonder why he’d ever given his invention the capacity to _think._   “Oh, you mean the information we discovered that you are refusing to disclose to Captain Rogers.  The secret.”

“You know why I told you to keep it secret.  And to the point: is Steve still–”

“He remains in the kitchen with Agents Barton and Romanoff and Mr. Wilson,” JARVIS tautly responded.  It was no secret that he disapproved of Tony’s decision to withhold this information they’d located.  He’d had no qualms with telling Tony just how much he disliked it.  _Repeatedly._ Tony was trying to ignore that yet again, but it was getting pretty hard.  There’d been tension between JARVIS and him for days.  And he was way past the point where he could dismiss JARVIS’ opinions because he was just a computer.  “Shall I warn you if he approaches?”

Tony wanted to snarl as he opened the file JARVIS had summoned to the computer terminal.  Jesus, didn’t anyone besides him fucking _understand_?  “You do realize that if he finds out–”

“He will feel betrayed by you.  Yes, I do indeed realize that.”  No “sir” was forthcoming, not even added as an afterthought.

Tony bit his lip hard, refusing to be cowed by that icy comment.  “He’ll leave,” he corrected firmly.  “He’ll go again, and he’s not ready.”

Even JARVIS didn’t have the balls to argue with that because it was true.  Hence why he’d been helping Tony keep the fruits of their research labors secret despite not agreeing with it.  The conclusion was sadly foregone: if Steve found out that Tony had found Barnes, he’d _leave._

Well, he hadn’t _found_ Barnes.  He rationalized that like he always did as he brought up the data they’d located.  It wasn’t _that_ bad.  He hadn’t directly located the Winter Soldier.  But he’d found a hell of a strong lead.  He’d found Lukin.  Russian General Aleksander Lukin, also known as one of HYDRA’s top dogs a couple decades ago.  Also known as the Winter Soldier’s handler before Barnes had ended up as Pierce’s lapdog.  Lukin and a buddy of his named Vasily Karpov had been in control of Barnes for over thirty years.  The evidence for this had been deep in the data dump, and JARVIS had had to dig (not quite legally) in the CIA’s intel on the Kremlin dating back to the 1970s, but Tony now had a wealth of information through which he’d been slowly picking these last couple weeks.  These two gems seemed rather directly responsible for a great deal of Barnes’ torture, brainwashing, and training.  Since many of the files were incomplete, heavily encrypted, or just not available, the details were sketchy and difficult to piece together.  Tony hadn’t tried too hard, not wanting to know anything more than what he did about what had been done to Barnes (and not wanting to feel any sympathy for this man, knowing all too well and in exacting detail what he’d done to Steve).  Karpov was gone and had been since SHIELD had collapsed.  That Tony knew for sure, although he wondered if this might have been the guy Sam and Steve had tracked down to Long Island (he sure as shit wasn’t going to ask, even though he was extremely curious.  Asking would definitely tip his hand).  Regardless, that was a dead end.

Lukin, however, had been rather busy of late.  Granted he was trying to hide his tracks considering the mess Pierce and his cronies had made, but it hadn’t taken Tony long at all to piece his movements together.  There were financial trails and connections to the black market and known HYDRA operatives scattered throughout the world though mostly centered in Russia and the old Eastern Bloc.  Still, the breadth of it couldn’t easily be seen from the microcosm out of which Steve and Sam had been operating.  Standing aloft with all the power of the Stark Industries’ computing cluster and JARVIS and all the information he could conceivably get his hands on, Tony had been able to draw up a map of all of Lukin’s possible connections and strongholds in no time at all.  There were dozens, but once he correlated that with the subtle signs of the Winter Soldier and the places he knew Steve had been searching for him…

Steve was absolutely right.  Lukin was the key to finding Barnes.  Barnes was hunting him, tracking him, it seemed.  Tony didn’t know or care to find out why.  Revenge?  Trying to explore his newly surfacing memories?  Maybe he was even working for Lukin, having returned to something familiar given SHIELD’s leash on him had been broken.  Regardless of the reason, Barnes was after Lukin, sure as the sun.  And with this map, with the connections Tony could track now in nearly real time with the computing power and search algorithms he had at his disposal…  Finding Barnes suddenly wasn’t so impossible.  It’d probably still be difficult as all hell, but armed with this it was definitely doable.  Steve could get out ahead of Barnes, anticipate his movements, maybe even trap him instead of the other way around…

_No._

And this was _exactly_ why he hadn’t said anything.  Of course it was selfish and fucking bullshit when he really thought about it.  If he’d just done this from the beginning, maybe Barnes would have been in custody ( _please that and not living with Steve…_ ) months ago.  It had taken all of two or three days to put this together, to develop the map and the monitoring algorithms.  Even without knowing what Steve and Sam had found and sent to Hill, Tony had been able to do all of this.  Maybe _none_ of this nightmare would have happened if he’d just fucking cooperated from the get go, gotten over his anger and resentment and jealousy and helped Steve from the start.

But he hadn’t.  And he wasn’t helping now, either.  If he gave Steve this…  It was like throwing fuel on the fire.  It was like _letting him go_ , and Tony wasn’t prepared to do that.  He wasn’t going to let Steve go back out there and hurt himself and torture himself more and run himself into the ground so they ended up exactly where they started a couple of weeks ago.  _No._   This wasn’t about wanting Steve here with him.  It was about _protecting_ Steve, making sure he didn’t kill himself over this.  Steve’s judgment was so damn compromised that with this there’d be no stopping him from going out there and doing whatever he could to save his friend, and Tony couldn’t let that happen.  Tony didn’t trust him not to get himself hurt again or worse.

So it was the right thing to do.  _The right thing._

_Keep telling yourself that._

He looked over the map again, watching as his system predicted with probabilities about where Lukin could be before doing the same (with far less certainty) for Barnes.  For a second, as he blankly watched the numbers glow on the holographic terminal, flittering by as the map scrolled and moved, he wondered if it just wouldn’t be better to go himself.  Take Iron Man and get the job done.  Hell, with Barton, Romanoff, and Wilson here, the four of them could do it and not involve Steve at all.  Put an end to this.  His system was fairly certain (greater than 20%, which was fairly decent considering all the possible places worldwide that Barnes _could_ be and the highest confidence his system had generated thus far) that Barnes was in Bucharest.  That was a big place, and there was no way to narrow it down further, but maybe if they went…

_No._

Annoyed, he swiped everything away, minimizing the map and all of the attached data and algorithms.  “JARVIS?”

“Can I help you, sir?” the AI coldly asked.

Tony wasn’t going to be daunted.  “Keep an eye on this, will you?”

“To what point and purpose if you have no intention on sharing this with Captain Rogers?”  Tony rolled his eyes and rolled himself back across the room.  “Far be it for me to comment on your relationship with him–”

“So don’t fucking comment.”

“–but trust is the cornerstone of any positive connection between two people, platonic or otherwise.  It is the foundation of commitment.”

Tony reached his workbench and accidentally banged his knee against it.  Grimacing, he rubbed his aching leg and bit down a vicious rejoinder.  Well, a really vicious one.  “Thank you, Doctor Phil.”

The AI paused, and his tone softened.  “You do yourself a disservice with this, sir.”

“Yeah, well, fucking things up is what I do best,” Tony groused.  Beside him, DUM-E waved his arm.  Tony turned to him, and the robot seemed to be staring.  Unmoving.  Accusing.  Even more annoyed, Tony grabbed his screwdriver and went back to work.  “What?  You, too?”  The robot beeped, a low, angry thing that almost sounded like a growl.  “Mind your own business.”  DUM-E beeped again, more insistent.  “You guys are supposed to be on my side.  I made you and I can unmake you.”  It was an idle threat, and they all knew it.  Tony narrowed his eyes, struggling to ignore that sleazy feeling bubbling inside.  “I’m doing what’s best.  The end.”

“As you say.  Agent Barton is outside and would like to see you.”

For some reason that was surprising, although he wondered if maybe it shouldn’t have been.  As much as he wanted to be jealous and bitter and self-deprecating, it wasn’t realistic.  Sighing, he said, “Yeah.  Send him in.”

A few seconds later (during which Tony useless tried to make himself _look_ busy) Clint came strolling into the workshop.  Tony hadn’t seen him in almost six months, not since the last time the Avengers assembled at Fury’s command.  He hadn’t been directly involved in the fighting at SHIELD that Tony knew; he’d been on a mission overseas at the time, and to Tony’s knowledge, he’d returned to the smoking wreckage of his employer and wondered what the hell had happened.  Tony still didn’t know Clint all that well, but he had to admit that sounded like him.

Barton was wearing jeans and a black shirt and black jacket and a cool frown now as he appraised Tony evenly.  “Hey, Stark,” he casually greeted.

“Barton,” Tony answered, dropping his eyes in an attempt at coolness as his own as he pries open the casing around the repulsor.  “How’ve you been?”

“Decent,” Barton answered.  He put his hands in his pockets and looked around the workshop, appraising the large space with its cluttered shelves and benches and tables evenly.  “You?”

Tony couldn’t concentrate for the life of him.  “Same.”

“Yeah, sure.”  Clint was venturing deeper, ignoring the heaps of half-finished inventions and dangling wires and exposed circuit boards.  He didn’t seem interested in any of that actually, his sharp eyes focused on the old ratty couch.  Steve’s couch.  He went right to that.  “Decent doesn’t really cover what’s been going on.  You know, when your significant other almost kills himself for his long lost war buddy turned psychopath assassin.  Multiple times.  Nat told me he threw down his shield when the Insight carriers were crashing and let Barnes beat the crap out of him.  That’s some serious shit for you to have to process.”

 _Christ._   _“Et tu?”_ Tony asked, trying to smother his anger.

Barton turned around with a wry smile.  “What, you prefer I call him your boyfriend?  Lover?  I thought significant other was a pretty nice way of putting it.”

“Fucking bullshit,” Tony grumbled, tossing his screwdriver again in total indignant surrender.  “At this point, why don’t we get Thor on the line?  He’s about the only one who hasn’t rendered an opinion on my love life.”

Barton sat on the couch.  That pissed Tony off more, to have Clint sitting where only Steve was allowed to sit.  “Hey, man.  I see things, you know?  Kinda part of my job.  And it’s cool.  I don’t judge.”  He looked at the ratty fabric, worn to shreds, and the lumpy cushions.  “Except for this thing.  What the actual hell, Stark?  All the money in the world and you have this piece of shit in your workshop?”

Tony had it.  Clint had been there for all of two minutes, and he’d already worn out his welcome.  He was across the workshop in a second, about ready to yank the archer up and kick his ass out, when Clint leaned back into the cushions and winced.  He fumbled behind him, pulling out a leather, spiral bound sketchbook.  Steve’s sketchbook.  Tony lurched to grab it, but Barton was so damn fast.  He’d already pulled it to the side and had it open.  “Wow.”

Tony paused.  He’d caught glimpses of Steve’s sketches before of course, like the time they’d made out right here after he’d snatched the book right out of Steve’s hands.  But he’d never done this, _looked_ unabashedly.  Steve had never expressly forbidden him to do it, but he’d never told him it was okay, either.  His curiosity pretty much always beat out respecting other people’s secrets, though.  The first sketch was a hand, his own hand he belatedly realized from the shape of his fingers and the familiar calluses.  The next was DUM-E, the details perfect and exquisite.  Again another one of him, his back as he leaned over his workbench.  Many more.  Natasha’s eyes.  A profile of Sam that could have put a photograph to shame.  Thor’s hammer.  The Tower from below.  Peggy Carter.  Barnes himself.  So many sketches, but it was obvious as Clint quietly and quickly flipped through that most of them were of Tony.  Pieces of him.  All of him.  Some abandoned and some so complete that it made his face heat and his heart pound, and he was yanking the book out of Barton’s hands before he realized it.  “Stop,” he snapped.

“But I want to get to the dirty pictures,” Barton said, but it was pretty obvious he was too surprised to put genuine effort into the joke.  Surprised and touched, both that Steve put his memories down like this, that he was _so good_ at it, and that so many of his sketches were of Tony.  And they were reverent in a way.  So much attention to detail.  So much love in it.  Tony closed the book tightly and walked back to his bench, possessive and embarrassed and so damn warm with what he was feeling.  He bit his lower lip, resisting the urge to open the book again and look more carefully.  Instead his stupid bullshit ego made him toss it onto his cluttered desk like it meant nothing.

The silence that came was uncomfortable to say the least.  Tony leaned into this desk, hanging his head a little and scrambling to find some way to tell Barton to fuck off.  Scrambling to anchor himself because he felt like he was falling again and falling hard.  All those times Steve had lounged on that couch, music playing and the two of them talking like there was nothing better in the world and Steve’s pencil scratching and those brilliant blues surreptitiously stealing peeks at him…  He heard Clint get up; the squeaks and creaks of the couch were familiar enough.  He stiffened as the other man approached.  Barton’s air of disinterest fell away, and he seemed sincerely concerned.  “You want to talk?”

What the hell sort of reality was this?  Was he face-planted on his workbench or something?  Passed out.  Dreaming.  He had to be, because this was too weird to be real.  “What the hell,” he breathed, shaking his head.

Barton shrugged.  “Don’t know Cap all that well, not like Nat and Wilson do anyway.  So I thought I might as well do for you what I think they’re doing for him.”  That didn’t make Tony uncomfortable, that Sam and Natasha were talking to Steve, getting him to confide in them, offering up a shoulder to cry on or whatever.  Nope, not fucking _at all._  What, was his shoulder insufficient?  And Steve _hadn’t_ cried, not since the hospital.  He’d been surprisingly low-key these last couple weeks, so calm and unbothered.  Had he been bottling it all up for when his friends finally arrived?

And what in the world was up with Barton acting like this?  “You don’t know me either,” Tony reminded.

Again with the shrug.  “So?”  Barton gave an easy, sad smile.  “Hey, you know, there’s nothing wrong with just… letting it all go and being happy.  It works sometimes.  Sometimes you gotta let go to do right by the things you love.”

Tony jerked against an uncomfortable shudder.  “You have ESP or something?”

Barton’s face fractured in confusion.  “Should I?” he slowly asked.

Tony sighed shortly and shook his head.  For a second he considered telling Clint about what he’d found – confiding in him (that was the point of this weird moment, was it not?) about his dilemma.  Even though he’d done a decent job ignoring it all week, now it was pressing, and maybe it would feel better to be honest with _someone._   Get advice.  That was fucking crazy talk.  “I just…  I want to keep Steve here.  I don’t feel like I’m wrong to want that.”

Barton didn’t continue immediately, like he wasn’t sure.  “What does he want?  To save Barnes.”  Tony gave him a scowl.  Barton huffed a little laugh and raised his hands in defeat.  “Have to appreciate why.”

“No, I don’t.  The guy’s…  Whoever he was to Steve, he’s not that anymore.”

“Who are you to make that determination?”

Tony flushed.  That was literally playing Devil’s advocate.  “I’m the one who sat by Steve’s side while he fucking clung to life in the ICU, that’s who.”  He angrily slammed shut the case of the repulsor he just pried open not minutes before.  “The one who’s been patching him every time he takes this too far.  Like now.”  Thankfully, Clint didn’t argue.  Tony didn’t think he’d be able to stand it if he did.  He huffed a short, irritated breath.  “You think I’m being uncompassionate.  And controlling.”

 _Again_ with that damn frustrating, noncommittal shrug.  Had Barton always been this laidback and lackadaisical and Tony had simply never noticed it before?  “I don’t know.  Been on the outside of this whole mess looking in, so it’s hard to say.  I know Cap’s got a good sense of people and right and wrong too, so if he thinks Barnes is worth saving, maybe he’s worth saving.”

“Maybe he is,” Tony snapped, “but not like this.”

Clint didn’t argue with that, either.  “I don’t have to tell you that sometimes things don’t work out the best way,” he said, and, no, he didn’t need to tell Tony that.  Tony had lived a _life_ of that.  “Shit gets fucked up, especially for us.  Part of the job, I guess.  But I think…”  He shook his head a little, and his face donned a more serious expression than Tony had ever really seen him have before.  “Having someone to face the fucked up shit with is more important than what it’s about.  So you need to do what you can to make each other happy.  That’s more important than being right.  You find someone that makes you feel good, feel safe…  You stand by each other.  You stand by that.  Do right by that.”

That was… surprising apt and meaningful for Barton.  Tony stared at him, fairly certain this was coming from more than just something that seemed theoretically correct to him.  This was the sort of thing spoken from experience.  The glazed look in the other man’s eyes faded, like he had been lost in thought or memory before realizing he was drifting.  He gave a cheeky smile.  “Unless I was wrong about you guys and you prefer the term ‘fuck buddies’ or something.  I don’t usually miss but sometimes–”

Tony smiled in spite of himself, averting his eyes.  “No.”

“You and Cap…  It’s good.  Makes sense.”  Tony turned back, surprised.  Now the shrug was sweeter and far less annoying.  Barton nodded.  “Opposites attract or whatever.”

Tony grunted a laugh, trying but failing to hide how nice it was to hear that.  _Finally._   “Whatever.”

The workshop door opened, and Romanoff came in.  Tony’s spirits immediately took a nosedive again, and his hackles went right back up.  It wasn’t a recent thing that he and Natasha didn’t see eye to eye, what with her being sent by SHIELD to spy on him a couple years back.  That tended to sour one on trust.  Whatever shred of friendship that might have between them had been ripped by, well, _everything_ that had happened in the last few months _._   And she looked as cold and uncaring as she always did.  He knew she was a good person, an asset to SHIELD and the team and amazingly smart.  Frankly, she scared the crap out of him, and not just because she seemed to know a million ways to destroy (not just kill) a man.  She didn’t tolerate bullshit, particularly his, and that left him feeling rather exposed and ineffectual around her.  And she loved Steve.  She loved and guarded him like an older sister did her younger brother, fierce in a way that bothered Tony a great deal.  Again, he knew it shouldn’t, and he should be glad that Steve had other people who cared so much about him.  But this was just a bit too much of him needing to win over big sister’s approval, and, in no uncertain terms, fuck that.

So he gritted his teeth as Natasha came in his inner sanctum, as she came closer, as she regarded him coolly with that icy, stoic glare she had.  If Barton noticed the tensions instantaneously ramp up, he didn’t say anything.  “We going?” he asked instead.

Natasha glanced at him, but her gaze was fixated on Tony.  “Yeah.  I need to speak with Stark for a second though.  Alone.”

Tony couldn’t help a snide remark.  It was a blatant attempt to hide how angry and unhappy that made him, and surely she noticed it.  “Oooh, I’m in trouble.”

Natasha gave him a stern look, but she didn’t do anything to disabuse him of that.  Of course not.  Tony stared at his work uselessly, waiting for Barton to get the picture and get out.  The mood had dropped from fairly comfortable to unbearable in the space of a second or two.  Barton pursed his lips and nodded.  “Later, Tony.”  With that, he was gone.

So now this was where they were.  Tony shuffled a moment, fidgety and nervous and trying hard to keep his ire contained.  Trying hard to remember that Natasha was _Steve’s friend._   He had to respect that.

At least his brain knew that.  Unfortunately, his mouth was always directly wired to his heart.  “If you’re here to give me shit about not handling this to your standards, don’t bother.”

Romanoff arched an eyebrow.  “No.”

“Because honestly?  I feel like I did a pretty good job.  Saved his life.  Got him home.  Put some meat back on his bones.”  He couldn’t stop himself from being petty.  He was an asshole that way.  “Fucked a smile back on his face.  Magic healing cock and all that.”  He could feel Natasha seething like her disgust and vitriol were tangible things slamming into him.  He immediately felt ashamed for saying what he had, but stopping was nigh impossible.  All the anger that had been simmering inside him for forever – _she doesn’t think you’re good enough for him_ – drove him on.  “That’s all this is, right?  What Steve and I have?  Just stupid sex?”

Romanoff wasn’t in the mood for games.  “You know I don’t think that.”

“You think poorly enough of me to complain to Banner.”  Being an asshole was satisfying enough that he picked up his screwdriver again and went back to work with renewed aplomb.  “Dick move, by the way, gossiping with _my friend_ behind _my back._ ”

“Can we not do this?”  She shook her head.  “I know who you are.  I know what you do.  You want to fault me for having doubts?  Fine.  Go right ahead.  But I didn’t come to fight.”

Tony glared at her.  “Then why are you here?”  She opened her mouth, and he interrupted her.  “Besides the obvious.  I get it.  You’re worried about him.  You needed to check on him, you know, make sure I was handling it.  Even though I _told you_ I was.”  God, it was all spilling out now, this childish vomit.  “He’s fine, Natasha.  I got it under control.”

“I never thought you didn’t,” she claimed.

Yeah, that was bullshit.  He decided not to argue, though, because what was the point?  He didn’t think there was anything he could do to prove himself to her, so why try?  “Then why are you here?” he demanded again, setting his tools back down loudly.  “You saw Steve.  He’s _fine_.  He’s recovering.  And he’s staying here.  I’ll make sure he does.  I know you care about him, so you don’t need to worry.  He hasn’t said anything about leaving, which is fine, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t get any ideas.  I’ll get him busy doing stuff.  Avengers stuff, maybe.  Helping Hill run crap from here.  So it’s all over and done with.  No more martyring himself.  No more throwing himself into hell for Barnes.  So go do your super spy stuff in Europe.  Find the scepter or whatever.”

“Tony.”

He realized then that he hadn’t been looking at her.  Now he did, and the stern expression of judgment she so easily seemed to wear was missing from her face.  That soothed Tony’s pain more than it should have.  She seemed genuinely upset about something, so off her game in fact that it was showing.  Beneath that veneer she always had, the million and one masks she used to hide her true feelings, he could see she was worried.  That tempered his anger significantly.  She hesitated, more flustered than he could ever recall seeing her be.  “What?” he prompted impatiently, anxiety rippling in his belly.

Natasha’s pink lips parted like she was about to speak.  Then she thought better of it, closing her mouth again.  She came closer, her boots thudding like thunder as she did.  She sighed, clearly gathering herself.  “I _am_ worried about Steve,” she finally said.

“No shit.”

She gave him a half-hearted glare.  “There’s…  I know why he did this to himself this time so much worse than all the other times.  He’s punishing himself.”

Honestly, Tony hadn’t thought about it that way.  And this last time being so awful didn’t negate how bad all the previous times had been.  Still, that gave him pause.  It definitely did.  “What do you mean?  For not finding Barnes?”  She didn’t answer, that uncertainty back in her eyes.  Tony’s restraint all but failed him, shredded by mounting concern.  _“What?”_

“It’s not that,” she quickly replied as if she was realizing she was in too deep to back out.  “It’s…  He found something when they were out on Long Island.”

“I know.  Sam told me.”  He’d completely forgotten about that.  His voice softened with the seriousness of it all.  “You know about it?”

Natasha shook her head.  “He didn’t tell me specifics.”  For a moment it once more seemed like that would be all she said, like she was concerned about betraying Steve’s trust.  She went on, though.  “He called a few times while they were in Europe.  I could…”  She sighed, like she was running something through in her head again, fitting pieces of a puzzle together only to come to the same sad conclusion.  “I could tell he was upset.  Really shaken.  He was trying to get my advice without asking directly.  That’s not like him.”  Tony had to admit that was true.  Steve didn’t mince words, didn’t play games, especially when it was about something important.  “He never told me what happened, what got him so riled.  But he did tell me he was scared.  He didn’t know what to do.  For the first time in his life, he didn’t know what was right.”

 _Jesus._   Maybe that was melodramatic, but something told Tony not a word of it was false, that if Steve said that to Natasha, he meant it.  “What…”

“He didn’t tell me what,” Natasha said again, even more forcefully.  Her eyes sharpened and abruptly she seemed angry again, though whether because of her own helpless ignorance or him repeating a question she’d already answered he couldn’t say.  She looked Tony square in the eye, and whatever doubt she’d been feeling before was clearly gone.  “But whatever it was, whatever it is…  I think – I _know_ that it has to do with you.”

That took him completely by surprise.  He stared at Natasha in shock, his brain derailed, his heart suddenly pounding, a cold sweat prickling over his flesh.  “Me?”

The look Natasha gave him was nothing but pained and not just pained for Steve.  Pained for _him._   There was worry for _him_ in her eyes, deep and disturbing.  “Yes.”

That… didn’t make sense.  What could Steve had possibly found that had to do with him?  His mind raced, jittering from thought to thought with mounting horror and panic fueling it.  Something about Afghanistan?  The Mandarin?  There hadn’t been ties to HYDRA there.  He’d looked in the data dump, figuring if Stane or Killian had been part of HYDRA’s flock it would have showed.  Nothing.  Maybe HYDRA or Barnes had been after him?  But why would…

“He’s scared he’s going to lose you.”

Tony forced himself to focus.  Everything looked off all the sudden.  The red dulled in Natasha’s hair.  The bright day dimmed where it streamed in through the windows of his workshop.  The way Natasha was frowning, desperation in her eyes.  Tony swallowed through an achingly dry throat.  “He said that?”

She shook her head.  “He didn’t have to.”  She sighed, taking another step closer.  “Look, Tony…  I don’t have to like what you two have to see that you mean a lot to him.  And you’re right; I worry about him.  A lot.  So that’s why I came here.  Whatever he found, whatever he knows…”  She faltered again, like she was amending her words.  She closed her eyes in defeat.  “I don’t know what, not for certain, but I can guess.”

That made this so much worse.  “Then fucking guess,” he demanded.

Again she shook her head, this time in almost a knee-jerk reaction.  “No.  No, I…  It’s not right.  Not my place.”  _Jesus._  He sputtered on his breath, his thoughts clambering for purchase against, well, _nothing._   She knew, and she wasn’t going to tell him!  The anger came back quickly and so much worse than before.  Natasha’s eyes narrowed.  “He’s going to tell you eventually.  I know he will.  He’s who he is.  He’ll have to.  He won’t just let it go.  And when he does…  I need you to promise me something.”

“You’re not exactly in any position to ask me to do _anything._ ”  Not with how she felt about him.  Not with her continually trying to mark Steve like he was her territory.  Not with her _hiding_ whatever this was right now!  She only stared though, her gaze piercing, and eventually Tony caved because he wasn’t going to glare her into submission.  “What?”

“Just promise me you’ll remember that he’s trying to protect you.”

That amplified all his doubt and dread.  “You can’t ask me to do that.”  Her request was akin to what people did all the time: _promise me you won’t get mad if I tell you something._   It was bullshit, asking someone to blindly withhold a natural reaction.  If whatever had Steve spooked had to do with him, there was no way he could gauge what his response could be to it.  No way.  “That’s not fair.”

“No,” she conceded, “it’s not.”

He didn’t know what to say, but there was no chance to say anything anyway.  The door to the workshop opened again, and in walked Steve and Sam.  Barton was just outside the hall.  Steve looked light and happy, an easy smile on his face and confidence in his step.  Sam murmured something low to him, and Steve chuckled.  Wilson turned to Romanoff.  “Ready, Nat?”

Natasha held Tony’s gaze, warning and demanding and almost accusatory for crimes he’d yet to commit.  Tony lost that battle almost instantly, looking away and grinding his teeth.  “Yes,” she answered.  Tony made a point of _not_ watching them all say their goodbyes, Natasha hugging Steve and kissing his cheek and Sam making Steve promise not to do anything stupid while they were gone.  Steve flushed with that, embarrassed like he’d been caught in the act, but he swore it all the same.  Promises were being tossed around like trash today it seemed.  After a final hug between Steve and Wilson, the three of them were gone.

The workshop was silent.  It felt _wrong_ , way too open and empty despite all his things and his tools and his half-finished inventions right there where they should be.  Despite Steve being right there.  Tony’s inner sanctum, his safe haven… breached.

Steve came over, oblivious.  He wrapped his arms around Tony from behind.  They were huge and strong and lined with powerful muscles, and for the first time Tony could recall since they’d started seeing each other, he felt small and trapped.  “You okay?  Sorry about that.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Tony replied as nonchalantly as he could.

Steve kissed his neck.  “I know you and Nat don’t see eye to eye.”  Tony grunted before he could stop himself.  _Fucking understatement._   He was so damn rattled and aching.  “She needs to get over it.  And she will.”

“Sure.”

Steve turned him around, hooking his thumbs into the loops of Tony’s well-worn jeans and pulling him closer.  “Well, they’re gone.  You wanna go try those new things now?”  That was a low purr, a rumble against his pulse point because Steve had dropped his face into Tony’s throat, and Tony wanted to cry.  It was impossible to hide, not with Steve pressing him against the edge of his workbench, not with Steve more aggressively kissing at his jaw.  Tony was usually the instigator and a moment where Steve was starting things?  This should have been a celebration, and he should have been _all over it_ (and all over Steve).  But he wasn’t.  He wasn’t touching more than putting his hands on Steve’s waist, wasn’t kissing, wasn’t his normal charming, hot-blooded, demanding self.  Steve pulled away, confusion deep in his eyes.  “What’s the matter?”

 _Everything._   Tony stared at him, tempted for a second simply to ask.  Come right out.  Come at Steve with what he knew.  Confront him.  _What do you know?_   It would be so easy to say it.

But he didn’t.  “Nothing.”

Steve wasn’t convinced.  He stared at Tony, gaze roving over his face, trying to figure him out.  Then he backed off.  Why wouldn’t he?  Tony was as stiff and unresponsive and cold as ice in his arms.  Hurt and worry shone bright in Steve’s eyes.  “Okay.  We don’t have to.”

“No, I just…”  Time to lie.  “Work.  For Pepper.  Sorry, babe.”  He donned a grin and fisted Steve’s polo shirt and hauled him back for a longer kiss.  He put effort into this – it wasn’t hard – but he still kept it less hungry than he normally was.  He couldn’t stand the thought of Steve thinking he was rejecting him, but damn he was hurt that Steve was…  Lying.  Hiding something.  _Christ._

Oh, the fucking irony.

But he didn’t confess to his crimes, either.  Steve nodded and pulled away.  “Oh.  Okay.”  Just like that, the air between them had changed.  _This_ was all it took.  It was hardly anything.  It always was.  Every other time, they slid down like this, like the good stuff, the sex and the laughing and the good times together, wasn’t enough to sustain them.  _The goddamn script.  The play by play._ It was inevitable, it seemed.  Who they were.

Steve was looking at him fearfully, warily, trying to hide that but failing so miserably.   “I’ll just…  Mind if I draw for a bit?”

Tony gave him a Cheshire cat grin and nudged him away with his hip.  “Nope.  You want to capture the essence of my back or my front?  My ass is a piece of art, I gotta say.”  He handed Steve his sketchbook.

Steve’s eyes were suspicious as he took it.  Maybe he was wondering why it was over here.  Maybe he was wondering if Tony had looked in it.  He was wondering if Tony had looked and seen all the love and devotion pressed into paper, long strokes of pencils and charcoals that had innocently imprinted just how deeply he cared.  Maybe he was off-put by the change in tone between them; surely he’d felt it, too.  Maybe he was wondering what _Tony_ was hiding.  Maybe, maybe, _maybe._

But he didn’t ask, didn’t say anything, heading over to the ratty couch.  Tony watched him settle there but not with his usual ease and comfort.  Steve was tense and troubled as he opened to a blank page.  Then he pulled the pencil from where it was stuck in the binding and went to work.  Tony tried to work too, but the silence was deep and thick and distracting, and he couldn’t stop glancing at Steve, Steve who was looking anywhere but at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Et tu?_ – You too?


	6. Chapter 6

_“Come, break me down.  Bury me, bury me._  
_I am finished with you._  
_Look in my eyes…  You’re killing me, killing me._  
_All I wanted was you.”_  
– Thirty Seconds to Mars, “The Kill”

 

Tony had to find out the truth.

_He had to._

The need was absolutely driving, like an itch deep in his brain that he couldn’t scratch, like a compulsion he simply couldn’t ignore.  Like a hunger that wouldn’t abate.  _Addiction._   Of all the many he had in his life, the many with which he warred, this was maybe the worst.  More than alcohol and more than having a good time.  More than thrill-seeking and sex.  More than tinkering and inventing and getting his way when he wanted it.  More than Steve, even.  No, there was nothing better than satisfying his insatiable curiosity.  Pushing buttons to see what they did.  Taking a problem, a puzzle, and pulling it apart and studying its pieces and putting it back together only after he knew how every single piece of it worked…  He needed that high of understanding like a drug.  He couldn’t ever let something go when he didn’t understand it.

So he had to find out what Steve knew.  _Addiction._   Feeding this one was going to be costly, and _he_ _fucking well knew it_ , but he just didn’t care. 

The afternoon wore on, all of that awful _difference_ between them thick in the air, and Tony couldn’t stop thinking.  His brain was on overdrive, so much so that a couple of times when Steve asked him a simple question, he almost didn’t notice and failed to answer.  Steve knew something was up.  Of course he did.  Tony was really shit at acting despite his earlier internal bravado over it, especially when he was this consumed.  His mind was too busy thinking to possibly put any effort into seeming normal, so he ended up realigning the same thruster in Iron Man’s boot about six times and staring off in the distance more often than not and stammering lame answers to Steve’s questions, so _of course_ Steve figured out he wasn’t himself.  Steve wasn’t stupid, far from it, and if he’d been paying closer attention, he would have noticed that Tony was redoing the same work over again and very obviously a million miles away while he was doing it.

But Steve was keeping his distance, too.  They were _both_ seemingly caught up in their own heads.  Steve sat on the couch and drawn (maybe he was drawing the same sketch over and over again, too?  Tony wouldn’t be surprised), but he was tense and not committed to it.  Tony knew _him_ well enough to see that in the few seconds his brain let him look and notice.  Steve was always so relaxed and content when he sketched, focused on his book with his pencil almost continuously moving, eyes lost in concentration and lips (Tony could admit it) adorably pursed.  He wasn’t like that now.  No, he was rigid, and his pencil scratched over the paper in sharp bursts that came and went randomly.  Steve was thinking as much as Tony was and thinking too much and about something not entirely pleasant.

Everything was different, strained, shredding.  This was headed straight to hell.

Tony didn’t stop it, though, no matter how much the sudden stress between them was bothering him.  This was only going to go one place, and he knew that because it had gone to that place _every time_ before this one.  Just that morning it had seemed impossible that it would end as it always ended, with a fight and Steve leaving him.  Just that morning he’d basked – fucking _basked_ – in how wonderful everything was like a love-struck, giddy, stupid teenager.  They’d made love without a care for anything beyond each other and all of this awful nightmare had seemed so far away that it was gone entirely.  Steve wasn’t leaving.  Steve was _never_ leaving again.  Everything had been good and right and perfect and they were together like they should be.  _Captain America and Iron Man._   So _this time_ was going to be different, and Tony had been so certain that he hadn’t even entertained a second of fear otherwise.

And all it had taken was one moment, one small _statement_ – _“it has to do with you”_ – to ruin everything.

 _How could it have to do with me?  What could he have found?  It doesn’t make any damn sense.  If HYDRA was involved with Stark Industries, I’d know it.  And I combed over the data dump; there was nothing there.  And Dad wouldn’t have… Christ, no.  That can’t be it.  He couldn’t have known, couldn’t have been part of this.  Fuck.  Could he?  Jesus, if he was involved with HYDRA…_   The mere thought twisted his stomach with pain and nausea, with deep-set disgust.  It couldn’t be.  Howard had been a shit father, but he’d been a good man, a decent man, someone who’d helped make Captain America and fight the Nazis and win the war.  Someone who’d helped found SHIELD and run SHIELD before it had been infested by evil.  A good man.  There was no way he’d ever knowingly be involved with HYDRA.

But if he had been…  _It’d fit, why Steve won’t tell me.  Natasha said he’s protecting me.  Of course he wouldn’t tell me._ Steve was trying to spare his feelings.  Steve was trying to keep him safe because he loved him and this would destroy Tony’s world.  Well, in theory it would.  Maybe.  On good days he was ambivalent about his old man, and on others…  _No.  He was a good man.  He couldn’t have helped HYDRA, not willingly._

Truth be told, the more Tony considered this option, the more it didn’t make sense.  He couldn’t imagine Steve punishing himself so recklessly, if punishing himself was truly what this had been about, just because he found out Howard Stark was a HYDRA agent.  It would hurt them both, no doubt about it, because Steve knew Howard, had been good friends with Howard, even though Tony and Steve never much talked about it.  It was another of those things they simply didn’t discuss.  Even still, this seemed… extreme.  Tony couldn’t say why, but unless Howard had done something truly reprehensible…  It wasn’t enough of a reason.

So, with that fairly well debunked (in his head anyway), he went on to wonder if Steve had found some link between Stane and HYDRA.  Perhaps the Ten Rings had done what they’d done to Tony on Pierce’s or someone else’s command.  While maybe upsetting, that was water under the bridge at this point.  It didn’t matter.  What was done was done.  It’d be trading evil for evil, and he didn’t think Steve would almost kill himself saving Barnes and keeping this secret over that.

_Then what?_

Tony turned the problem inside out and upside down in his head, all to no avail.  He simply didn’t have the data to form any sort of reasonable (or even poorly supported) conclusion.  Whatever Steve was hiding had to do with the past because anything in the future, any plans HYDRA might have had concerning Tony or Stark Industries, were moot now.  So was it something about Pepper?  Something that had already been done to him?  He’d had _a lot_ done to him, but not much recently, and he was still standing and still going so, yet again, that all seemed irrelevant.  Some heinous plan to force Iron Man to serve them?  An assassination attempt on him?  On Pepper?

_What the hell is it?_

Something to do with Barnes.  It had to be.  But aside from a few stories on his father’s part and Steve mentioning him once or twice before SHIELD had gone down, he’d never known anything about Barnes.  Never cared.  They’d certainly never crossed paths.  Granted, if Tony had been there the day Barnes had nearly caused the deaths of millions by standing in Steve’s way when Captain America had stopped Project: Insight, he’d certainly have kicked his ass.  And he had a hell of a grudge against the bastard now, which went without saying.  But that was all recent, formed in and fueled by the last six months, so none of this made any sense.  What could Barnes have possibly done that would affect him that he didn’t know about?

“You wanna get dinner?”

Steve’s question was thunderous in the quiet, and Tony was so caught up in his thoughts he lost his grip on his screwdriver and dropped it.  The clank was louder than it had any right to be, and the tool rolled off the table and clattered to the floor.  Tony crouched to get it, but it was already out of reach.  “Um…  Yeah.”  He shook his head as if to clear it and forced himself to focus.  Dinner?  Was it dinner time already?  Had the two of them spent the whole afternoon not talking and stewing and uselessly trying to keep busy?  “Sure.  What do you want?”

Steve was already up from the couch.  He didn’t say anything about Tony’s clumsy lapse, bending down to scoop up the fallen screwdriver.  He handed it over, watching Tony with concerned, anxious eyes.  Tony could hear the question before it even left Steve’s lips.  “Are you okay?”

He lost his patience.  He was pissed off, more because he couldn’t figure this out than at Steve himself (although Steve was the reason he couldn’t figure this out – because he was fucking _lying_ about whatever this was.  He had to be!).  His words came out sharp.  “I’m fine.  Christ, would you stop it?”

Hurt furrowed Steve’s brow, hurt followed quickly by anger.  “Alright.  Sorry for asking.”  He straightened and made to walk away toward the workshop doors, sketchbook tucked under his arm.

 _Goddamn it._   “Wait, Steve.  Steve!”  Quickly he got to his feet and grabbed Steve’s arm.  _Don’t let this happen.  Don’t let everything slip away.  Don’t let the fight start.  Don’t let him go.  Don’t hurt him.  Don’t let him hurt you.  Don’t, don’t, don’t._ Steve’s eyes were brilliantly blue in the fading evening sun, ethereal almost, and he stared at Tony impassively, like he was waiting to react based on Tony’s mood.  The distance between them felt gaping, and Tony didn’t know what to say.  “I…”  _Let it drop.  Whatever it is, he’ll tell you when he’s ready.  And it’s not important.  He’s here.  Be happy with that._   “Let’s go out.”

Steve’s face fractured in confusion.  “Out?”

“Yeah, out.  You know.”  Tony grinned, increasingly pleased with the idea for no other reason than to get away from this tense misery.  “On a date.”

 They’d never done that, not in the many months of being together.  There were the practical reasons, of course.  Being forced to take Steve to the hospital two weeks ago had been enough exposure; taking unnecessary risks like going out in public as a couple was just plain stupid.  Captain America and Iron Man together?  Tony’s reputation was already crap when it came to bedroom antics, and even a couple of years being steady with Pepper hadn’t done much to repair it.  But Steve _with_ him?  Tony didn’t think the country was ready for that, in more ways than one, and he didn’t think Steve was ready for the fall-out.

But fuck it.  They could go out like bros, or like teammates at least, just to escape this hell before it got worse.  Change of scenery and all that.  No PDA.  Considering they’d hardly left the penthouse let alone the Tower in two weeks, getting some fresh air suddenly seemed like the best damned idea he’d had all day.  “Let’s go get dinner.”

For a moment, he was pretty sure Steve was going to say no.  Hell, had he done _anything_ remotely similar to this in months?  Had he _ever_ just gone out and done nothing, and enjoyed dinner or a movie or whatever, even before all this shit had gone down?  Maybe not.  Steve was staring at him, more suspicious than anything else, because as much as this wasn’t like him, it wasn’t like Tony either.  But he finally nodded.  “Okay.  Sure.”

* * *

So they went out.  They didn’t go far.  There was a really good Indian place just a couple blocks from the Tower.  Steve had never had Indian food (apparently it was still on his list), so they headed there.  It was a nice evening, cool but not chilly, and they headed out with jackets and sunglasses on.  Steve didn’t have too much trouble hiding in plain sight; far more people recognized the shield than the man, so in plain clothes he was just another guy.  Tony, on the other hand…  Sometimes he regretted just how much time he’d spent in his youth in front of cameras.  Thankfully, no one noticed them as they walked to the restaurant.  It was a huge relief.  So was breathing the crisp air, frankly.  Away from the confines of the Tower, even as luxurious and huge as those confines were, was doing wonders for his mood.  It wasn’t hard at all to leave things behind.  Steve’s secret.  What had happened to him the last time he’d gone out looking for Barnes.  Barnes himself.  All of that was back there, and they’d physically removed themselves from it.  That felt unreasonably good.

The restaurant was nothing more than a hole in the wall, but they made some of the best biryani Tony had ever eaten.  He knew the proprietors, an older, nice couple, so he and Steve were immediately given the most private table, and the wait staff started bringing food out without instruction.  Steve was impressed at Tony’s clout (and a little surprised – why was he always surprised?  He was dating Tony Stark, for crying out loud), but he was more than enthusiastic as he dug into the feast.  Tony explained the dishes to him, going over the ingredients that he knew, comparing them to Indian cuisine in the different parts of India to which he’d been.  It was very delicious.  Also it was all very pleasant, and for a bit everything felt the way it had before Natasha had shown up.  Easy.  Fun.  Happy.

But it didn’t last.  Tony’s phone beeped in his pocket, and he pulled it out while Steve helped himself to another portion of vindaloo and rice and talked about someone he’d known back during World War II who’d apparently frequented India.  Tony glanced at the screen under the table.  He expected a text from Pepper about the business or something of the like, though why he didn’t know.  He didn’t know why the hell he was so shocked at what he saw.

JARVIS had found Barnes.

 _Damn it._   The AI had sent the newest results from their search right to him.  The algorithm they’d written had narrowed the entire city of Bucharest and its surrounding areas, a couple million people total, down to a four block radius.  _Holy shit._   The location was flashing, a blinking red box deep in the busy city.  JARVIS was more than 70% certain that Barnes was living there.  Apparently he’d tapped into a few cell phone networks and mobile devices which had sporadically caught numerous images of a man fitting Barnes’ description over the last few months.  Even if Barnes wasn’t currently there, this was an undeniably powerful lead.  And Lukin was still in the vicinity of Prague, if the algorithm was right (which it likely was).  Which meant that even if Barnes wasn’t at home ( _fuck – this is probably the Winter Soldier’s home!_ ), he was probably somewhere between the two cities.

“What’s the matter?”

Tony was startled.  He nearly dropped his phone onto the floor.  Swallowing through a tight throat, he quickly turned the device off with shaking fingers and pocketed it anew.  “Nothing.”

Steve was not at all convinced, a mixture of concern and suspicion twisting his face.  Tony tried to ignore him, picking up his fork and diving back into his dinner with gusto.  Suddenly all he could taste was the spice of curry, the heat of it, and it burned.  He could feel Steve’s eyes on him, scrutinizing, searching and analyzing and _judging._   The weight of that – of his own lies – felt absolutely crushing, and he wanted to sink into his chair.  Their shadowy, private nook in the tiny restaurant suddenly felt huge and exposed.

And Steve wasn’t going to let it go this time because Steve was a stubborn bastard.  They had that in common.  “What did she say to you?”

Tony was so damn punchy with JARVIS’ discovery that for a second (and even though Steve clearly said “she”) he thought Steve was asking about what JARVIS had sent.  He thought that Steve _knew_.  “Nothing,” he stammered like a fucking pathetic moron.  Yeah, that wasn’t the least bit convincing.  He wondered if he looked as much like a criminal caught in the act as he felt.  “It’s nothing.”

Steve narrowed his eyes.  “It’s not nothing.  You’ve been acting off since Natasha talked to you.  This whole afternoon, you’ve been all caught up in something.  What did she say?”

 _Jesus.  Not now._   Tony didn’t know what was bothering him more right then: the secret he was keeping from Steve or the secret Steve was keeping from him.  Either way, this was beyond screwed up.  “I’m fine.  She didn’t…  I just…  I don’t…”  He made the mistake of looking up from his food and meeting Steve’s gaze.  Steve’s bright blue eyes and clean-shaven face.  Steve’s lips pressed into a frown.  Steve’s concern.  Steve’s heart on his goddamn sleeve.  Steve, so earnest and strong and brave and self-sacrificing.  Always doing what he thought was best.  Always fighting for what was right, for those who needed protection, for _whomever_ needed it no matter what that person had done.  For Barnes.  _Steve limping into the Tower, barely supporting his own weight, his shield nearly slipping off his arm and tears in his eyes and blood all over him and bearded and filthy and suffering and God I can’t do this anymore no more please please please–_   “I don’t want you to leave.”

It just spilled out of him.  Everything from today was behind it, pushing and driving and forcing him to admit the truth.  Steve leaned back, surprised, and Tony went on.  It was out there and there was no pulling it back, so he did what he always did in times like this when his emotions got the better of him.  He went all in.  “I don’t want you to go back out there.  Okay?  There, I said it.  I’ve been wanting to say it for two weeks now.  So there.  That’s what’s bothering me.  I don’t want you to go.”

Steve shook his head in confusion.  His mouth was hanging limply open a second, and Tony couldn’t decide if his muteness was because he couldn’t think of what to say to deny it (like he, too, was caught in the act) or if he was just surprised at the suddenness of it.  “I wasn’t going…  I mean, I’m not–”

“Don’t,” Tony said.  “Don’t pretend like you haven’t been thinking about it.  I know you, Steve.”

Steve’s eyes darkened, and Tony knew they were treading even closer to the point of no return.  They’d done this enough times now that he could read Steve’s body language like a goddamn book.  “You don’t know what I’ve been thinking.”

“Yeah, because you don’t talk to me.”  _Case in point._   Like whatever Steve had found out there…  Sam knew about it.  Natasha knew what it was, for crying out loud.  Hell, the two of them had come all the way to New York so Steve could talk and unburden and cry on their shoulders (metaphorically if nothing else), and Tony was more than a little salty about that (and jealous).  And this was petty and stupid and _not the real problem_ , but there it was.  “You talk to them, but you won’t talk to me.”

Hurt splayed across Steve’s face again, and Tony felt like a bastard.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Before he realized it, he backed off.  _Don’t do this.  Don’t let it get worse.  Just stop._   “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head and sighing.  He stuffed a forkful of rice and cream sauce into his mouth.  _It’s nothing.  Don’t fight.  You know what’ll happen if you fight.  Don’t do it!_ He chewed and swallowed and pretended not to hurt.  “Just drop it, okay?  Forget I said anything.  I’m sorry.”

But it was too damn late.  Tony was becoming increasingly certain of that.  Fate.  Destiny.  The two of them, bound to repeat this awful cycle of hell over and over again like they were caught in some sort of sci-fi time loop.  The mistakes had been made already, and the sad thing was Tony wasn’t even sure what they were or when they’d happened this time.  Any time.  _Every time_.

And Steve…  He was definitely smart enough to realize the same sad facts.  But he could be a selfish asshole when it suited him, too.  “No, I’m not dropping it.  What are you saying?  Huh?  That I’m not allowed to talk to anyone else?  That I need to talk to you?”

“That is what people in relationships do,” Tony said tautly.

“I can’t talk to you about Bucky.”  Steve’s voice was tight, pinched by pain and no small amount of anger.  “I can’t.  You know why?  Because you’ve made it abundantly clear every time we’ve been together over the last few months _exactly_ what you think of him.”

That wasn’t fair, even if it was true.  “It’s not him.”  _Not strictly._   “It’s you doing this to yourself I don’t like.”

“Oh, come off it, Tony,” Steve said.  Petulantly he pushed his plate away, and something flashed in his eyes that Tony couldn’t quite read.  Anger and resentment, sure, but fear and a whole lot of self-loathing.  It was gone in a blink, and Steve was shaking his head, almost at himself.  “That’s not it.  Never _once_ have you expressed any understanding, let alone sympathy, for his situation.  Nobody seems to give a damn that HYDRA tortured him and brainwashed him and abused–”  His voice broke, and he looked away again.  It took him a second to gather his composure, which he spent with his eyes closed and his face downturned.  Tony felt even more like a bastard.  “He didn’t have a choice.  Nat and Sam don’t seem to care.  You don’t care, either.”

That seemed a strange thing to say, and it was stranger still because Steve offered it up almost shamefully.  And Tony didn’t want to go there.  He didn’t want to face the truth about Barnes, that the monster who’d pumped four bullets into the man Tony loved before leaving him to die on the riverbank was a victim in all this.  It was the same shit over and over again.  The same intractable situation.  He couldn’t deny that he didn’t care about Barnes’ plight, and he couldn’t bring himself to accept it, so it was best simply to move on.  “Look, I don’t want to argue about that.  I don’t want to argue about anything.  I just…  I don’t want you to go.  That’s it.  I…”  It almost came out.  He _almost_ said it.  _I love you._   Maybe if he just _could_ , all of this would be so much better.  Maybe if he wasn’t such a chicken shit coward.

But he was, and he couldn’t, and onward went the nonsense in its place.  The same old nonsense, too.  The same old drivel that he always said, that had started every fight.  The poison that would drive Steve away.  “I want you here with me.  I need you.  The Avengers need you.  There’s no reason you need to do this.  Christ, Steve, you almost died last time.”  Steve looked away again, flushing in a mix of horror and shame.  Tony went in for the kill.  “You walked into a trap and they took you down.  And you were alone.  You were so fucking lucky you made it back–”

“Tony–”

“ _No._   You almost died.”  That was the truth, the thing about which they’d not talked or thought for two weeks.  “That can’t happen again.  So you need to stay here.”

Belatedly Tony realized that sounded pretty possessive (and more than pretty controlling), but it was too late to take it back.  Steve’s eyes flashed.  “You can’t tell me what to do.”  Real mature.  Steve’s cheeks colored with a mixture of embarrassment and anger.  “I keep telling you.  I _need_ to do this.”

“I don’t trust you not to get yourself hurt, Steve!  Or killed!”

“You don’t trust me.”  The incredulous venom laced into those words was immeasurable.

Tony spat back a whole lot of the same.  “You haven’t given me a whole lot of reason to, for fuck’s sake.  Don’t even try telling me you’re taking care of yourself.  I saw it, so _don’t even._ ”

Steve silently surrendered and changed tactics.  At least he was thinking enough to realize that was an argument he couldn’t win.  “I can’t do what needs to be done without putting myself in danger!  HYDRA’s out there, Tony, and they’re after him.  I have to do this.  I have to.  What, it’s okay when it’s for the Avengers or for SHIELD but not when it’s for Bucky?”

“No–”

“I don’t want to fight.  I don’t want to.”

“So don’t!  Stay with me.  Promise me.  You need to now.  You did before.  In the hospital.”  Steve’s face hardened in equal parts confusion and wariness.  He clearly didn’t remember promising anything, and why would he?  He’d been half out of his head with pain and delirium.  Surgery without anesthesia tended to do that.  But Tony wasn’t so good as to be above using meaningless vows sworn in a desperate moment to win an argument.  “So this last time was _the_ last time.  That’s it.  No more.  You’re not going out there again.  You’re staying with me.”

“I can’t!  I need to do this!”  Steve’s voice was a low hiss.  “Don’t you understand it?  I keep saying it and no one listens!  I owe him–”

“You don’t owe him anything!”  Tony’s voice wasn’t quite so quiet and contained, and even though they were in a secluded corner, people could probably hear.  The wait staff or other patrons.  That was all they needed.  Captain America and Iron Man seen in a lover’s quarrel.  Tony gritted his teeth, pissed off at himself and at Steve and this whole damn situation, and forced himself to calm down.  It was so damn hard, because he’d said this very thing – those same words – _so many times_.  “You don’t owe him.  Not this.  Do you hear me?  You don’t owe him a _goddamn thing._ ”

Steve clenched his jaw.  “Yes, I do.  I owe him, Tony, for everything he’s done for me.  If our roles were switched, he’d do the same for me.”  Tony opened his mouth to rebuke and deny – the same pointless debate all over again – but Steve was already thundering on.  “I gotta bring him in.  I’m the only one who can.  He’ll kill anyone else, and I can’t let that happen.  I can’t let him hurt anyone else.  I can’t _let_ that happen.  That’s why I gotta bring him in.  You don’t understand.  This isn’t about me.  You don’t know–”

“I don’t care,” Tony said forcefully.  “He’s hurting you.  He’s hurting you every time you go out there.  I don’t care if he’s not the one laying the traps and kicking the shit out of you every time you blunder into one and shooting you and pumping you full of buckshot.  Alright?  I’m done.  I’ve fucking watched it, Steve, and it stops now.”

“Jesus, Tony.”  Steve ducked his head, breathing through a long moment or two, and when he looked up, Tony thought his eyes glimmered wetly.  “Why?” he said in exasperation.  “Why do you have to do this?  Every time, every goddamn time…  You always do this!”

“Do what?  Protect you?  Care about you?  Take care of you?  _What_ , Steve?  Put you back together every time you come home fucking _broken?_   Feed you and clean you up and make you feel good only to have you throw it all back in my face like it’s all worth nothing and walk away?”  Steve winced.  “What?  Come on!  What evil thing am I doing to you?  Huh?”  Tony’s anger tightened and tightened like a knot inside, like a vise around his heart that was squeezing so hard the pressure wouldn’t let him breathe.  “Huh?  What am I doing that’s so bad?”

Steve’s lower lip twitched, quivered, before he bit it hard and glared harder and whispered, “You’re making me _choose_.”

It was silent a moment.  The soft hum of the restaurant was suddenly so loud.  Tony could hardly hear it, though, over the sound of the world collapsing, of his heart stuttering in his chest.  Everything went cold, muzzy, distant, and gray.  _You’re making me choose._   The realization of that awful truth had always been there, like a phantom clinging to every other time they’d fought about this.  _You’re making me choose._   He was making Steve choose between doing the right thing and what Tony wanted.  He was making Steve choose between his best friend and his lover.  Between the last link to the life he’d had before and the anchor of his life now.  Surrender Barnes and keep Tony, or leave Tony hurt and wanting in order to chase down the monster his best friend had become.  What the hell kind of options were those?  _Terrible ones._   So Tony had long ago recognized on some fundamental level that he was making Steve suffer with an awful, unfair decision that Steve couldn’t bear to make, that every time they argued and he yelled the same words over and over again…  _You don’t owe him.  Let him go.  Stay with me.  You’re making a mistake and getting yourself hurt and he’s not worth any part of you…_   Every time, just like this time, he’d known he was shoving Steve’s face into the problem and forcing Steve to look at it and make a choice that would hurt them both.

But on the other side…  It wasn’t any fairer to Tony himself.  It wasn’t fair to have to watch Steve leave over and over again, watch him sacrifice himself for a man who, at best, was damaged probably beyond repair or, at worst, was unrepentant evil and still under HYDRA’s influence.  It wasn’t fair to be used like this, to have his arguments which were loaded with logic and common sense utterly ignored or tossed back in his face.  It wasn’t fair to watch Steve choose Barnes over him, over and over and _over_ again, no matter how many times Tony washed away his miseries and nursed him back to health and eased his anguish with a distraction of food or company or sex.  It wasn’t fair, because that was what Steve was doing when he walked away and resumed his goddamn crusade.  He was _choosing_ Barnes and leaving Tony behind.  It didn’t matter if he flipped one-eighty and left Barnes behind to come back to Tony whenever he couldn’t fight anymore.  It didn’t matter.  It wasn’t fucking fair.

It made him so angry that Steve would reduce everything like that.  _Making me choose._ A part of Tony knew Steve was right.  A part of him hated himself for that.  A part of him hated Steve even more for making him feel this way.  And he wanted to say it.  _I’m making you choose?  Bullshit, Steve!  You have no idea what you do to me.  How you make me feel when you leave me for him.  Every fucking time.  Sitting and worrying about you, waiting for you to come back or to hear you’re fucking dead because you think he’s worth more than you!  You stupid fucking asshole!  I’m making you choose?  I don’t even get a fucking choice!_

But he didn’t say any of it.  He couldn’t.  It hurt.  It hurt _too_ _much_.

“Mr. Stark?”

The voice wrenched him from his thoughts.  It wasn’t Steve’s.  No, it was their waiter, a young guy with a nervous smile and eyes that had obviously already seen too much of their argument.  He floundered a second, glancing between Steve (who was stubbornly looking at the edge of the table like it was the most interesting thing in the world) and Tony (who was still uselessly reeling).  The kid tried for a smile, but it was really just pathetic and nervous.  “Can I get you anything else, sir?”

Tony gritted his teeth, drowning in his anger and grief, and shook his head.  “Nope.  We’re through here.”

* * *

They walked back in silence.  Complete fucking _silence._   Not a word was spoken.  Not a glance was shared.  There was no meager effort to touch or talk, no small attempt to ease the raw, fresh, _throbbing_ pain.  No hope for reconciliation.  No nothing.  They were on the path now, the path that led to the end.  He’d patched Steve up.  They’d had their good times.  They’d fucked.  Now they were fighting.  This was going to escalate and escalate until there was nothing left between them but harsh words that couldn’t be unspoken and bleeding hearts that couldn’t be healed.  Then Steve would go.

 _Wash.  Rinse.  Repeat._   Tony wanted to scream.  He tried to tell himself that he didn’t care anymore.  Steve could leave.  Fine.  He could just ignore Tony’s advice, his pleas, his heart, and go back out there.  Hunt down his precious Bucky.  Get himself fucking _murdered_ for all Tony cared.  He was tired of trying.  Really tired.  If this was how it ended, then it was how it ended.  He didn’t want to deal with this anymore.  It wasn’t worth it.  He couldn’t make Steve see reason.  What was that old saying?  _Lead a horse to water._   Well, he’d led this one there countless times now, and this one refused to drink.  So if it died from dehydration, that was its own damn fault.  He’d wash his hands of it and be done.

It wasn’t worth how much this killed him inside.  It wasn’t worth the pain and frustration.  If Steve wanted to choose Barnes…  _Let him._

Just thinking that was devastating, though.  He didn’t want to give up.  He didn’t want Steve to leave, and he didn’t want to end their relationship.  Not now.  _Not ever._   It didn’t matter how angry and hurt and tired he was.  It didn’t matter if they were doomed, if Bruce was right and they weren’t meant to be together, if they were destined to do this over and over again until one or both of them shattered…  He couldn’t let Steve go.  The mere idea of _not being with Steve_ was too painful to contemplate, even if Steve was halfway across the world and even further from his heart and soul.  _He comes to me.  He comes back to me._   Maybe that was all they had, Steve trusting Tony to fix him and everything falling apart once the fixing was done, but Tony couldn’t give up any part of Steve.  Not any part.  No matter how much it hurt, like a thorn cutting into his heart and digging in deeper with every beat, he wouldn’t give that up.

He loved Steve far too much to lose him.

Before Tony even realized it, they were back at the Tower, back in the prison he’d built.  Back up in the penthouse.  Back in their bedroom.  It was dark, shadowy, and so quiet.  The bed was perfectly made, huge and empty, like they’d never slept there at all.  Like Steve hadn’t been so deathly ill there.  Like Tony hadn’t cared for him, hadn’t held him, hadn’t watched him sleep.  Hadn’t loved him there and been loved there himself.  Just shadows and silence.

Steve shrugged off his coat – _he’s taking off his coat_ – and laid it on the chair.  He glanced around as well, troubled and uncomfortable.  “I, uh…”  His voice was thunderous and echoing because the emptiness between them was as vast as a canyon.  Even he seemed surprised to hear himself talking.  “I need to burn off some energy.  Gonna go hit the gym for a bit.  That okay with you?”

“You don’t need my permission.”  That came out way snippier than Tony meant for it to.  After all his thinking on the walk back about how much he needed and wanted Steve, he was treating Steve like shit right now.  Once or twice during the walk, Steve had looked his way.  Tony had felt his gaze, felt his big blue eyes wondering and searching.  Looking for comfort.  Maybe trying to give solace as well.  Maybe wanting to talk, to ease the pain from their “heated discussion” at the restaurant.  Tony had flat out ignored him.  And now he was being a cold asshole.  But, as usual, he couldn’t bring himself to be better.  “Go.”

Steve stood there staring at him, and Tony knew if he looked he’d see something only slightly less pathetic than a kicked Golden Retriever puppy.  He could practically feel Steve get pissed off, but Steve was Steve, and Steve was better than him in a lot of ways, so even though the air was practically vibrating with anger, Steve made a last-ditch effort to diffuse it.  “Tony, I don’t want to fight.  I really don’t.  I wasn’t…  I don’t know what I’m doing right now.  Cooling my heels, I guess.  I can’t promise you anything because I don’t know anything.”

“No, you don’t,” Tony said, stiff and unyielding, “and you have a serious problem with listening to anyone other than yourself.”  Fuck, that was awful.  Awful on purpose.  Steve flinched, and Tony glared daggers at the seating area.  At Steve’s shield gleaming in the shadows, untouched for weeks.  “So go punch shit.  It is what you do best.  Punch shit and make yourself feel better.  I…”

Steve’s shield, and right next to it, Steve’s backpack.

_Steve’s backpack._

Before Tony even realized what he was doing, he was smiling as best he could, sweeping across the room to Steve.  “I’m sorry,” he offered.  “That was mean.  I’m sorry.  Go.  Go work out.  I’ll, uh…  I’ll wait up for you.”  It wasn’t that late, and of the two of them and even without the serum, Tony was the night owl, so saying that was weird.  And it all sounded overly desperate to Tony’s ears, so he toned it down, banished the excitement from his tone.  “It’s fine, alright?  I’m okay.  Just…”  He needed to cover this up and fast.  The lie came embarrassingly easy.  “Natasha was all over me for how I handled this.  How I took care of you.  I didn’t want to make you upset.”

Steve’s expression softened, though not entirely.  He knew Tony too well to be completely assured by his sudden admission.  “She didn’t mean it,” he said after a beat.  “She worries.”

“I know.  It’s fine.  She’s entitled to her opinion.  And I’ve fucked up enough in the past for it to be warranted.”

“Tony, that’s not true.  She’s got no right to judge you.”

“It’s fine,” he said again, wondering if he was laying it on too thick.  He wanted Steve gone, so putting a quick end to their argument seemed a good way to do it.  However, on the other hand, if he went too far, Steve might not leave because he thought Tony needed comfort or some such nonsense, and this whole stupid plan of his would backfire.  “It really is.  I just…  I need a couple minutes to myself, okay?  It’s not you.”  _You have no idea how much it is you._   “I’m just gonna take a shower and get some work done up here.  So go do your thing.”

Steve stood there and stared at him, even more doubtful and worried.  Tony kept his face impassive – maybe he could act when he really needed to – and waited patiently, trying not to seem eager or unsure.  Finally, Steve nodded.  “Alright.  I’ll, uh…  Be back later.”

“Sure.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

Tony rolled his eyes.  “God, _yes._   Now get out of here.  Go smack the bag and do push-ups and jumping-jacks or whatever it is you do down there and get all hot and sweaty.  Then I’ll help you take a shower.”  God, that was the shittiest flirting he’d ever done.  And Steve wasn’t buying it.  He was tense, eyes still narrowed with confusion and misgiving.  Tony tried a smile.  “Seriously.  _Go._ ”

With that and one last anxious look, Steve headed out of the suite.

And Tony went right to the corner of the room where Steve’s things were.  The backpack was there, still streaked with dirt and grime, untouched since Steve had wandered into the Tower two weeks ago.  The black bag was partially beneath his shield, a lump in the shadows, and Tony couldn’t breathe.  _Just look._ It’d be so easy.  It’d be the answer to all this wondering, all this fruitless angst and frustration.  To all of Tony’s questions.  _Just look._   His fingers twitched as he reached toward it.

“Sir, don’t.”  JARVIS’ voice seemed to shake the room, even as soft and sad as it was.  Tony leaned back, hand outstretched, _this close_ to grasping the bag and lifting it.  “Sir.”

“I need to know,” Tony argued.  “Whatever he’s hiding–”

“You must have faith that he will tell you,” the AI responded firmly though not unkindly.  All of his harsh judgment from earlier that day was gone, replaced with almost a reedy desperation.  “You cannot betray him like this.  It is fundamentally wrong.”  Tony squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head angrily.  “It is as I said.  Trust is the cornerstone of any relationship.  You will do yourself a disservice.  And you will lose him.”

“Fuck,” Tony sputtered.  He pulled away, digging his fingers through his hair in an attempt to still them, to busy them, to grasp _something._   “Just fuck.  Christ, J.  Tell me what to do here.”

The AI didn’t answer for a moment.  Then the response came, quiet and painfully true.  “Talk to him.”

That served only to anger Tony further.  _Talk to him?_   They couldn’t talk.  Talking always ended in arguing, in harsh words that couldn’t be unsaid, in hateful barbs that couldn’t be retracted.  Talking always ended in fighting.  Why bother?  He and Steve didn’t see eye to eye about a lot of things but particularly about this.  Their little squabble in the restaurant was evidence enough about just how far apart they _still_ were on the topic of the Winter Soldier and what should be done about him.  So talking was useless and painful and just plain fucking stupid.

Before he knew was he was doing, he was stalking to the bathroom.  Stripping.  “JARVIS, cold water.”

“Sir–”

“Do it now,” he snapped, and the shower came on.  It was not quite as cold as he wanted, lukewarm in fact, but good enough.  Tony stepped inside, letting the tepid spray blast over him, letting it ground him, cool him off, seep into his skin and settle his nerves.  Pretty soon he was shivering, leaning into the shower wall, trying not to think and failing so miserably.  _I can’t look.  I just can’t.  I can’t do that to him._   JARVIS was absolutely right; it _was_ betrayal.  Whatever was in that bag – it felt like books and papers.  He remembered that from when he’d held it the first night Steve had come back, from when he’d almost opened it then and there…  Whatever it was, it was Steve’s, maybe all Steve had at this point with his life in shambles.  Tony had no right to pry into that, even if this secret did concern him.  He had no right.

He kept trying to convince himself as he finally stepped out and dried off with his fucking thousand dollar towels and dressed in some sleep pants and an undershirt.  He kept trying to tell himself he was doing the right thing.  He didn’t need to look.  This was alright.  It couldn’t be that bad, no matter what it was.  It couldn’t be.  He could be patient.  He could do that, for Steve’s sake.  He could.

He could wait until Steve told him.

He wanted _Steve_ more than he wanted to know.

Feeling stronger and better, he gathered up his clothes and headed to the bedroom again.  It didn’t seem quite so dark now.  He purposefully kept his eyes away from the wall where Steve’s shield was propped beside the backpack.  He wasn’t going to be distracted or be tempted.  No.  He wanted Steve, wanted their relationship, so this was what he had to do.

So he fished his phone from his jeans pocket and laid on their bed with his back against the headboard.  He sighed deeply, letting the deep breath of air calm him further.  It was so quiet, but maybe that was okay.  Quiet was okay.    He could deal with quiet.  It’d keep him focused.  He thumbed his phone on, sighed again, and started picking through the day’s email.  Some stuff from Pepper.  A message from Hill.  He got a little excited about that for some reason, but it was just an IT request for more server space.  He forwarded that to JARVIS.  Everything from Pepper concerned the business, reminders that she needed this or that or he was due to appear at this meeting or that convention.  Somewhere in all of it there was a question or two about how he was doing, how Steve was doing, how things were going.  That seemed too complicated to answer, so he didn’t bother right now.

After another sigh (okay, it was getting a little ridiculous now), he set his phone down.  He glanced back at the door.  Steve had only been gone… what?  Twenty minutes?  He needed to find something else to keep him busy.  Willpower was not now nor had it ever been nor would it ever be a strong suit of his.  Grabbing his phone again, he logged into the Tower’s vast multimedia servers and went looking for a movie for them to watch tonight.  That was simple and innocent and innocuous, and it could take a while considering the thousands of titles he had at his disposal.  So he started scanning through the list at the letter ‘A’.

Then his phone beeped.  A notification popped up.  The algorithm had gotten a hit on Lukin.  Tony almost tossed the phone to the bed.  Almost.  Instead he chewed his lip and fidgeted and warred and hated himself.  _No.  Don’t._ He was better than his desires, than his obsessions, than his addictions.  Better than his need to know.  He needed to ignore this.  _Put it down.  Don’t look._

Who was he kidding?  He thumbed the notification and saw the algorithm had obtained a piece of intel from hacking Interpol.  One of Lukin’s most regular business partners was flying to Dresden.  Considering what they knew of this man’s ties to the Red Room, it seemed likely he was meeting Lukin.  That would mean Lukin would be in Dresden.  _God._   Tony could take Iron Man and be there in no time.  He could find Lukin, question him, use him to lure Barnes out.  He could end this all, end it without Steve getting hurt.  Put Lukin out of his misery.  Bring Barnes in.  And he could get answers.

_No._

Frustrated, he shut his phone off and tossed it.  Sitting up, he rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes.  He tried to clear his head, to ignore that goddamn itch in his brain, to be better.  He breathed.  He fidgeted restlessly and then relaxed only to wind himself up again.  He languished and tried to fight the urge and tried to make himself get up and get out of the room because he wasn’t strong enough but he couldn’t and the answers were _right there_ and all it would take was a second and Steve would never even know he looked and he had to look because whatever this was it had to do with him–

 _No, no, no._   _Let it go._ He wasn’t doing this.  _No._

Who the fuck was he kidding?

Tony let loose a soft cry of despair and slid off the bed with a swish.  He was across the room in a blink, pulling Steve’s shield away and reaching for the backpack.  And his conscience (in other words, JARVIS) made a last ditch effort to stop him.  “Sir–” 

“Shut up.”  He stood with the backpack and headed to the lounge area, sitting in one of the expensive chairs.  His skin tingled and his heart shuddered in revulsion and his fingers shook as he fumbled for the bag’s zipper.  Finally he grabbed it and pulled it open. 

At first all he saw was black cloth.  He realized it was one of Steve’s sweaters, the soft smell of Steve’s soap and Steve’s sweat was almost enough to make him stop.  He pulled the clothing out, and a gun clattered to the table as it fell from the bunched up fabric.  Tony swallowed through an achingly dry throat.  He’d never seen Steve shoot a gun, not even during battle.  That probably should have been a warning not to go further, but he’d never been good at heeding things like that.  He wrapped the gun back up in the sweater and put it on the table and dove back into the bag.  Money in different currencies.  A little bag of toiletries.  But, sure enough, there were books and papers in there.  He pulled out a book and recognized it instantly.  It was Steve’s sketchbook, an older one from before they’d started seeing each other.  Tony had only seen it a few times before, just enough to realize it was a cheap, weathered piece of shit which drove him to buy Steve nicer, better books.  What he was doing now felt even more like an invasion of Steve’s privacy than going in his bag, than looking in his other sketchbook earlier, because this was the one Steve had taken with him.  The one he obviously cherished.  Tony only hesitated a second before opening it.

More sketches of him.  Only sketches of him.  Pages and pages of them.  “Jesus,” he whispered.  His eyes.  His hands.  His face.  His smile.  His profile and his portrait and Iron Man.  So many of Iron Man.  Iron Man fighting.  Iron Man protecting.  Iron Man strong against evil.  Some of them were from before, he realized as he looked, before they’d fallen in together.  There was one of Tony standing in his armor without his helmet, and it had a date scribbled in the lower left-hand corner.  _05-22-2012._   That was right after the Battle of New York.  He couldn’t believe it.  That was how far back Steve had been attracted to him.  That was how long Steve had…

This was a love story in beautiful reverence.

Tony’s hands shook harder as he flipped through the pages to the end of the book, to the drawings Steve had clearly been working on recently.  One page was mud-splattered.  Another had a drop of blood or two marring the side.  “God…”  The last page had a half-finished drawing of him, maybe an image Steve had caught in that eidetic memory of his from their most recent fight, a picture of Tony that had haunted him across Europe…  Tony stared at his own eyes, and they were teary and desperately broken.

He closed the book and put it back.  He couldn’t bear to look more.  And he needed to stop now.  Right now.  “You’re a fucking asshole,” he said to himself.  He _needed_ to stop and preserve whatever soul he had left.

But he didn’t.

He closed his eyes a second, gathering strength, and dug more into the pack.  There was a log book.  He pulled that out.  It was old and yellowed and written in Russian.  It dated back to the 1950s.  Sam and Steve had probably taken it from the place they’d found on Long Island.  Tony picked through it and saw it was a compendium of the Winter Soldier’s missions on behalf of HYDRA.  Dates.  Targets.  Code words.  Locations.  That in particular looked recently disturbed, folded pages straightened and carefully laid in book where they had been falling out.  Tony’s brow furrowed.  Safe houses?  That would make sense; Sam and Steve would probably have checked these places for clues or Barnes himself, figuring he might go somewhere familiar.  The rest wasn’t overly interesting.  Granted, this was an epic telling of the Winter Soldier’s exploits, just like Sam had said they’d found, but Tony didn’t have the stomach, especially when he found another log book that covered HYDRA’s brainwashing efforts in handwritten notes and reports typed in Russian and German alike.  He didn’t open that one, not beyond the first page where he saw a picture of Bucky Barnes from 1943, fresh and young in his sergeant’s uniform.

And he found another file, this one starting with an old picture of the Winter Soldier in cryostasis.  The pages were extensively studied, Steve’s handwritten notes all over them.  Links between scientists in other books.  More dates and locations.  Steve’s research.  Steve’s efforts to unravel the past.  For some reason it surprised Tony that Steve was doing this, though he’d mentioned different things he’d learned offhandedly when he’d come back to the Tower before.  And it made sense.  Of course Steve was trying to understand Barnes’ history.  It just seemed strange he was so organized and methodical about it.  It was almost clinical and detached, like this was how he was processing it.  That bothered Tony a great deal. 

 _“I can’t talk to you about Bucky.”_ Steve meant that, and it was true.  _Goddamn it._ Tony closed his eyes.  This was his fault.  Steve dealing with Barnes’ suffering like this was _his_ fault.  Tony supposed if he’d bothered to care before now…

There were a few more folders.  Steve had marked them up, too, pieces of paper and sticky notes lining the pages.  Behind all that, though, there was another folder that looked surprisingly untouched.  This one was newer, a green hanging folder that probably came from a cabinet.  He pulled that one out and looked at the label.  And his heart immediately stopped in his chest.  “December 16th,” he read, “1991.”  He knew that date.  _He knew it._   He couldn’t breathe.  Horror made the room spin.  Realization began to dawn, an icy, awful spike of it driving right through his brain, but he was too shocked to focus on it.  Numb fingers wrenched the folder open.

Pictures of his parents greeted him.  Howard Stark.  Maria Stark.  He hadn’t looked at them in a while, so seeing them stare back at him sent shivers up and down his spine.  These were professional images.  He remembered when they’d been taken for some sort of Stark Industries event at the mansion on Long Island.  His father looked as stern and humorless as ever, but his mother’s eyes were soft and her red lips were curled into an easy, pleasant smile.  Even as he stared at them, he couldn’t make sense of why he was looking at them.  Why these pictures were there.  Frantically he flipped the page.  Now there were more pictures, pictures of the car crash.  He’d seen photographs of it before, but not like these.  Everything written around them was in Russian.  Angrily, he stumbled with the file over to the bed, grabbing for his phone.  “JARVIS, translate this!”

“Sir, perhaps you should–”

“Fucking translate it!  Now!”

The phone chirped, and almost instantly it scanned the handwritten report and provided an English translation.  He read it.  The world imploded again as the words appeared bright and crisp on the screen, _and_ _he_ _read them._   _“The Soldier was initialized on December 10 th, 1991 at 0400 hours.  Programming commenced at 0430.  The Soldier responded well despite initial resistance.  High levels of compliance.”_

“Sir, I do not think–”

_“–was dispatched to SHIELD Headquarters in Times Square.  He was instructed to sanction and extract.  Specifically, he was ordered to wait in the pre-scouted location until the target’s car was reported as having left the residence.  Subsequent police reports were destroyed but–”_

“Sir, please.  Please listen to me!”

_“–shot the rear tire, causing the car to swerve from the road and crash into a nearby telephone pole.  There was significant damage to the vehicle.  The Soldier reports both targets survived the collision.  He completed the extraction–”_

“Sir!  Mr. Stark!  Captain Rogers is–”

_“–Stark was wounded.  He begged for his wife’s life.  The Soldier indicated Stark recognized him.  This was of no consequence.  The Soldier terminated him.  He then strangled the second target where she was trapped in the passenger seat.  No evidence.  No survivors.”_

“Tony?  I – I can’t do this…  We need to talk.  I need to–”

Tony snapped to reality.  He looked up and saw the shadows of the bedroom again.  Saw a figure by the door.  _Saw Steve._

Steve stopped dead in his tracks.  “Tony?” he whispered.

Anger and pain filled Tony in a flood, and they were more powerful than anything he’d ever felt before.  Such deep, deep _betrayal_ left him shaking as he stood, as he glared at Steve.  The air was electrified with awful tension, tight and vicious.  Tony couldn’t think with the storm inside him.  He couldn’t think.  _Begged for his wife’s life.  Terminated him.  Strangled her.  No consequence.  No evidence._

_No survivors._

This couldn’t be true.  It couldn’t be happening.  _This_ couldn’t be happening.  The world tipped and twisted.  It wasn’t real.  His parents’ deaths…  The crash had been an accident.  That was what he’d been told by the police, by the media, by everyone.  An accident.  His father had been drinking.  The road had been icy.  They’d crashed.  It was supposed to be an accident!

HYDRA was everywhere and in everything.

_The Winter Soldier had assassinated them.  Sanction and extract._

Steve’s gaze darted to the open file on the bed, and the panic on his face was indescribable.  His breath hitched, his eyes widening, the color draining from his cheeks.  He gave a minute shake of his head, barely anything at all.  Dread and anger and grief.  Denial.  _Terror._  

Tony didn’t give a damn how scared he was.  His voice sounded wrong, alien, as he hissed, “I’m making you choose?”  He came closer, every muscle in his body absolutely taut with unbridled rage.  Steve backed up.  The room blurred as Tony’s eyes burned.  His heart thundered and his blood ran hot like acid in his veins.  “I’m making you choose?  Choose between me and the fucking monster who _murdered_ my parents?”

Steve shook his head.  “Tony, listen–”

“No!  I’m not listening to _anything_ you have to say!” 

“Tony, please–”

He was right in front of Steve now, wanting to hate him and hurt him and _destroy_ him for doing this to them.  “How long have you known?” he demanded.  He already knew the answer, but he needed to fucking _hear it._   Steve shook his head again, a small reflexive jerk of a thing.  That seemed to be about all he could do right now.  Tony got right in his face, cheeks wet and voice cracking.  “How long have you known?”

“I didn’t – I don’t–”

“Don’t bullshit me, Rogers!  How long?”

Steve was shaking.  “Since Sam and I went to Long Island.”

Even though he’d been told that by Sam and Natasha, hearing Steve admit it killed him.  Steve had known for weeks.  _Weeks._   He hadn’t said a thing.  “And you came back here.  You came back into _my_ home like nothing’s changed!  Into my fucking arms!”

Steve looked sick.  “Tony, please, you gotta understand.”  His voice tremored, his eyes wild with desperation.  “I’m not tryin’ to make excuses.  I’m not.  What he did was wrong, and he did it.  I can’t lie about that.  I can’t change it.  But you have to read the file.  Read what they did to him to force him to serve them!  They tortured him and stole his memories and–”

“No,” Tony seethed.  “ _No._   I don’t want to hear it, Steve.  _No!_ ”

Steve’s jaw tightened.  He wasn’t going to back down.  “HYDRA took his mind!  They brainwashed him over and over again for seventy _years_ , Tony!  He didn’t have a choice!  He didn’t!”

“But you have one!”  Every fiber of muscle, every nerve, was screaming for revenge.  Tony planted his hands against Steve’s chest and shoved him away and not at all gently.  “How much more does he have to destroy our world before you stop protecting him?  Almost killing you wasn’t enough.  Almost launching Project: Insight wasn’t.  Murdering dozens and dozens of innocents apparently isn’t either!  And killing–”  His voice failed him.  He choked on a sob, unable to even picture how it must have been, his mother and father dying in the wreckage of their car, beaten and strangled.  _Victims_ of the Winter Soldier.  The thought made his soul shake with anguish.  “You _lied_ to me!”

Emphatically Steve shook his head.  “I didn’t lie!”

“Oh, that’s horse shit, Steve!  And I know you.  I know you’re better than that!”

Steve grimaced.  “I was going to tell you.  I swear to God I was!  I–”

“What, you were going to casually mention this over dinner one night?  While we were watching TV?  After we’d fucked?  _Huh?_ ”  Steve flushed with anger and shame, revolted at just how vulgar that sounded.  Tony didn’t care.  “Nice pillow talk.  ‘By the way, doll, I found out my ex-best friend turned Soviet assassin offed your parents.  Sorry.’”

Anger shone bright in Steve’s eyes.  It was slowly but surely replacing the guilt.  “I’m not just trying to protect him!  I’m trying to protect you!  I didn’t want to hurt you!”

The agony inside got worse, twisting until Tony wanted to puke.  “You didn’t want to hurt _yourself_ , so fuck you.”  Steve’s eyes filled with angry tears.  Tony had never seen him so low, so hurt.  Steve had been in an impossible situation.  That thought was there, and it was true, and were their roles reversed, Tony had no idea what he would have done in Steve’s place.  But it didn’t matter.  _He didn’t care._   “I’m not making you choose, Steve.  You already chose, and you chose him.  You’re destroying yourself for a murderer.”

“No, Tony–”

“So this is what I mean to you.  You come back.  I patch you up.  Clean you up.  I feed you.  Buy you stuff.  Make you feel good.  _Fix you._   I do all of that for you…  It’s just like I said before.  You throw it in my face when you’re done and walk away.  It doesn’t mean anything to you.  All you care about is him.”

Steve’s face collapsed.  “No, Tony, no.  Please!  That’s not–”

“And yourself.  That’s all you _really_ care about.  _Yourself._   You’re a goddamn selfish bastard, Steve.  You’re throwing your lot in with him.  You know what?  Go ahead and do it, because I don’t care anymore.  _Fuck you._ ”  He said it again.  It felt good in a dark, awful way.  All the fights they’d had in the past, all the times they’d argued and bickered and thrown down…  This time was worse.  It was so much worse.  He felt like he was outside his body, watching some stranger tear Steve apart.  Before he’d always wanted to stop it on some level, because he knew where it was headed and he never wanted to go there.  Now he was numb, and he couldn’t feel anything but the cold misery of betrayal.  And he wanted to hurt Steve as much as Steve had hurt him.

So he did.  “You’re not Captain America.  You might as well be one of them.  HYDRA.”  He swallowed a sob and went on.  “You’re a fucking traitor.”

That was too far.  He knew it right when he said it.  Steve’s restraint snapped, and his eyes flashed, and for one awful, completely irrational instant, Tony thought about that gun wrapped up in Steve’s sweater.  Steve wouldn’t need it to hurt him, to kill him.  Steve wouldn’t need anything other than the rage Tony saw in his eyes and the pain twisting his face and his bare hands.  Just like when Steve had been out of his mind with the fever and hallucinating, Tony scrambled back, ducking away, frightened beyond the pale, only this time…  He wasn’t sure he didn’t deserve it.

But Steve just shoved him back, not even with all his strength, and went to his open backpack.  He stuffed everything back in, shaking hard enough that he could barely manage it.  Suddenly it was months ago, and Steve was packing to head out there the first time and hunt for Barnes, and Tony couldn’t stop him.  He didn’t want to stop him now.  Not now.  “It’s over,” he gasped, his throat tight and his ears ringing.  “It’s over.  No more.  I don’t want you anymore.  You hear me?”  Steve didn’t answer, working fast, feverish, zipping and reaching for his coat.  “Get out.  Go to him and don’t come back.  Go save him and be with him and fuck him, if that’s what you want.  Let him take care of you.  I know I never measured up.”  There was a sharp intake of breath – Steve’s sob – but Tony couldn’t see his face so he didn’t know if he was crying.  It didn’t matter.  And it didn’t matter that Tony was crying himself.  _“Get out!”_

Steve grabbed his shield and left.


	7. Chapter 7

Just like that, the room was quiet again.  So quiet.  Dark and lonely.  _Empty._

Tony’s heart was pounding.  The shadows were spinning around him.  He felt so sick, so weak, shaking helplessly with the punishing waves of his emotions.  His eyes stung, and no matter how he blinked, he couldn’t make them see right.

When he finally did, though, his father was staring at him.  It was just the picture, because the file Steve had found was still open on the bed.  But it didn’t feel like just a picture.  _His father_ was staring at him.  Staring hard.  Demanding.  Accusing.  His father, who helped _create_ Captain America.

_“Why, Dad?  Why are you going?  You just got back!”_

The memory came out of nowhere, unbidden and unwelcomed.  His father’s hand had been gentle on his head.  He’d sat on the edge of Tony’s old bed in their old mansion on Long Island, and Tony had laid beside him, curled up and crying.  He couldn’t have been more than six or seven at the time.  This was the beginning, he realized, where he’d first started to hate Captain America.  Howard had been gone a lot, gone all the time, working but not just that apparently.  Searching for Steve.  Driving himself to find him.  Spending Stark Industries’ money and resources.  Spending so much time, all of Tony’s childhood in fact.  _Wasting it._

Howard had gazed on him sadly.  He thought his dad had been sad about it all.  Maybe it was wishful thinking projecting something into his memories that hadn’t been there.  Maybe.  _“It’s something I have to do, Tony.”_

He remembered his eyes burning, just like they were burning now.  Angry tears.  Bitter disappointment.  _“You were supposed to be here for my birthday!  Mom promised!_ ”  He’d been pretty sure his mother had been right outside his bedroom door, listening and suffering with her own guilt and disappointment.  After Howard had left, she’d come in, bearing a soft voice and gentle hands and kisses and hugs and a lullaby even though he was way too old for that.  Right then she hadn’t been there, though, and he’d never felt so betrayed.  _“You can’t go, Dad!  Please stay!”_

_“I have to go.  One day you’ll understand how important it is.”_

Howard always said that.  Always.  _One day you’ll understand, Tony._   Why the company needed his undivided attention.  Why the government did.  Why he always had to go, had to work, had to search for Captain America.  What Captain America meant to this world, to the people who’d lost him.  _Captain America._

Tony had hated Captain America for years.  And right then, with his father uncomfortably perched at his side, that hatred had been born, had grown from his resentment and pain, from being left alone, from _being passed over_.  He’d buried his face into his pillow and sobbed, wailed with hot tears streaming from his eyes.  _“It’s not fair!  Why do you always go?  Why?”_

Howard’s stiff fingers had paused in their uncomfortable petting.  _“I have to find him.  I can’t give up.  I can’t.  You don’t realize how important it is.  How important he is.”_

 _“I don’t care!  I hate Captain America!”_   Tony would scream it if he had to.  He hadn’t realized then what had been beginning, that this would be just the first time he’d resent Steve Rogers, that Steve would take and take from him, that Steve would hurt him without even knowing it.  This would be the first time of many times that he’d realize what it _meant_ to be left behind. 

God, just once…  Why couldn’t someone choose _him?  “I hate him!  I hate you!”_

_“Anthony.”_

Tony had opened his eyes then, finding his bedroom dark and blurry.  Quiet.  _Empty._   He’d rolled over because his father had taken his shoulder and pulled.  Those same stern, humorless eyes had stared down at him.  There had been pain there, though.  Regret.  _“Please don’t hate him.  If there’s a chance I can save him, I have to take it.”_

_“Why, Dad?  Why?”_

_“You have no idea what he sacrificed for us, for everyone.  And you have no idea how much I owe him.”_

Tony snapped to awareness.  Reality was harsh and jarring despite the fact it was so similar to what he’d just remembered that his bones ached.  The empty bedroom.  The echo of their argument.  Tony’s breaking heart, struggling in his chest.  The chair where Steve had put his jacket before.  The shadows against the wall where his backpack had been.

Where his shield had been.

Suddenly Tony was running.  He was out the door of the bedroom, tearing through the hallways of the penthouse.  “JARVIS, I need the suit!”

JARVIS was absolutely horrified.  “Sir?”

Tony gritted his teeth, squeezing his hands into fists so hard his blunted nails dug into the flesh of his palm.  “I need the fucking suit!”  He tore through the penthouse, past the living area and kitchen, not seeing and not thinking and sinking hard and fast into the hungry hell inside him.  “Right now!  You fucking hear me?  _Right now!_ ”  He didn’t stop to hear JARVIS arguing; he wouldn’t disobey him, no matter how much he disapproved.  And he could fucking disapprove all he wanted.  Steve was _not_ leaving here with his father’s shield.  He was not using that shield to save his father’s murderer.  _Not anymore._

He burst through the suite’s doors.  Steve was right there, waiting for the elevator.  His shield was on his back, shining in the bright light of the corridor, the star so perfect and pure in its center.  Tony jumped forward, getting a hand on its edge and wrenching it away.  “That’s not yours!” he shouted.  He didn’t care if this was petty and wrong and vindictive.  He’d take the shield _back_.  “My father made that shield!  You don’t deserve it!  You don’t–”

Suddenly Steve was on him, turning and pushing him across the hallway until he hit the opposite wall.  Tony gasped, the shield falling from his useless hands and clattering with its distinctive hum on the floor.  Steve’s eyes were wet with tears, taut with fury, brimming with pain.  Yet again, for just a second, Tony thought he would hit him.  Steve was coiled tight, still like an animal brutalized and provoked and ready to attack.  But he didn’t.  He shoved Tony into the wall again and turned back to the elevator.  And he picked up his shield.

“That’s not yours,” Tony snarled again, back aching from where he’d hit the wall.  Sure enough the sheetrock was dented behind him.  Steve lifted the shield, glaring at him incredulously.  “That’s not yours!  It doesn’t belong to you!  You’re not taking it!”

Steve said nothing.  For an endless second, he just stood there in front of the elevator doors, staring at Tony, his expression somehow completely unreadable because Tony was too lost in his own emotions to possibly make sense of anything else.  He just _stood there_.

And then he dropped the shield like it meant _nothing._

 _No._ Tony couldn’t believe it.  God, that made him so much angrier.  Steve Rogers – perfect fucking Steve Rogers – would take the high road and walk away.  Would sacrifice being Captain America _ever again_ just to stop this fight from getting worse.  Would fucking _leave_ just because Tony told him to get out.  Tony didn’t want Steve gone – not really – because he wanted to fight.  It was even pettier, lower, more despicable, but it was true.  He _wanted_ the fight now, and he wanted it hard, because everything hurt worse than he could ever recall and there was no outlet for it.  He was bleeding inside, broken inside.  The wound was raw and throbbing with unspent aggression and his eyes felt swollen with unshed tears.  He needed the fight like he needed air to breathe and water to drink and someone to love him and someone to love.  He needed this, and Steve wasn’t going to take it from him.

Not this time.

Tony growled, more furious than he could ever recall feeling, and reached out his left hand.  He saw the streak of red and gold out of the corner of his eye, heard the sound of the suit coming, felt the gauntlet close over his vulnerable fingers and wrist.  The other gauntlet was quick to join it, covering his right hand.  The rest of the suit wasn’t there; JARVIS had obviously used his discretion to try and stop this.  Fuck him.  This wasn’t over.

The elevator dinged as it arrived.  Steve turned to it.  “Don’t you dare!”  With Iron Man’s gloves, Tony had the strength to stop Steve, and he did.  “You’re not leaving!”  Tony grabbed Steve’s wrist and hauled him back.  _You’re not leaving, not walking out on me.  Not abandoning me.  Not like this._

Steve wrenched away with all his considerable strength, and his backpack slid off his shoulder and thudded to the floor.  “Get off me,” he snapped, pushing Tony back.  His voice sounded hoarse, wrecked.  “What the hell’re you doing?  Let go!”  Tony didn’t.  He yanked harder, squeezed Steve’s arm until it hurt in all likelihood.  Steve drove him away, clearly wanting distance between them.  His face was flushed with hurt, his eyes wild and glimmering with angry tears.  “You goddamn son of a bitch!  You told me to get out, so I’m going.  _Let go!_ ”

Tony couldn’t stop himself.  It was wrong (so fucking wrong) and childish (so fucking childish), but there was no choice.  The pain inside – _he murdered my parents they’re dead because of him he put you on a fucking respirator I thought I was going to lose you Christ how can you do this to us_ – boiled up, exploded like a geyser, scalding and scorching, and he balled his free hand into a fist and punched Steve right across the face.

The shock of the blow was astounding.  This wasn’t a light smack or a warning strike.  Tony had hit Steve hard, as hard as he’d ever hit any monster or villain.  The force of it rattled Tony’s bones, vibrated his blood, shattered his heart.  Steve staggered back, smacking into the opening elevator doors, and they crumpled with the force of it.  He got his balance after a second, trembling with his back to Tony and his hand to his mouth.  Tony took a step away involuntarily, his fist and his arm and his whole body tingling.

It was absolutely silent.  Steve turned around, eyes wide, face pale around the blood dribbling from his busted lips.  _Jesus._   Tony couldn’t believe what he’d done.  All the damage Steve had sustained these last few months, all the times he’d been hit and kicked and stabbed and shot, all the times he’d been left battered and bleeding…  _Tony_ had been the one to do it this time.  It was terrible, unconscionable, maybe the worst thing he’d ever done on top of a huge pile of bad things.

Still, it felt good.  It felt good in that same dark way, the sour, hungry ache inside him pulsing with glee to see Steve’s pain and fear and surprise.  This was primal and possessive and completely and utterly wrong.It shouldn’t have been like this, but it was.  This was the _only_ thing that felt good, in this terrible, intractable, _fucked up_ situation.  _Vengeance._   Barnes had left Steve to die on the riverbank.  Barnes nearly destroyed the world.  And Barnes had pulled the trigger, had beaten his father to death and strangled his mother.

But Steve was the one who’d _hurt him._   Steve was the one who’d lied.  _Lied._   For two whole weeks, he’d lied.  And now Steve was walking out.  _Steve wasn’t fighting for him._

And this seemed to be all that was left between them.  Pain.  Anger.  Resentment and fear.  The shattered dream of something better.  Tony couldn’t handle that, couldn’t stomach the thought of everything he’d lost, couldn’t deal with this hole inside him that was ripped wide now and gaping.  _An eye for an eye._   He grabbed Steve’s arm again and roughly dragged him out of the elevator.  Steve staggered, threw a punch of his own, and it landed firmly against Tony’s jaw.  Fuck, that hurt.  The force had nearly snapped his head back.  But he knew instantly Steve hadn’t hit him that hard, that a mere fraction of his enhanced strength was behind the blow.  He knew, and that made him feel even lower, even less worthy, even more _fragile._   Tears blurred his vision, but he didn’t let go, didn’t loosen his grip around Steve’s wrist for even a second.  He yanked Steve back, twisted him, slammed him into the wall on the other side of the hallway, and stepped away.

Steve stumbled there.  It took him a second to right himself and not because he was physically distressed.  When he finally did straighten, he met Tony’s gaze head on.  There was nothing but pain in his eyes.  Regret.  Grief.  _Resignation._   “I don’t want to do this,” he whispered, shaking his head.  Blood covered his chin.  “I don’t want to fight.  I don’t think I can.  Please, Tony.  _Please._ ”  He shook his head.  “Please just let me go.”

It was escalating higher than it ever had.  Still…  _Don’t.  Don’t fight him.  Walk away.  Don’t hurt him.  Don’t let him hurt you._ They could end it all now.  It didn’t have to get worse.  It didn’t have to go further.  Steve was begging him.  And Steve was right.  All he had to do…  _Don’t make this work.  Don’t fight.  Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t–_

Tony couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything aside from teeter on the edge of something vast and deep and devastating.  All he had to do was let Steve go.

_No chance in hell._

He summoned the rest of the suit.

There was a fleeting moment of sad realization – acceptance – in Steve’s eyes.  He didn’t stand there and watch, though, as Iron Man encapsulated Tony, as the armor folded itself around him and swathed him in metal and strength and power.  Steve rolled to the right, avoiding the repulsor blast that Tony let loose, and scooped up his shield.

“Sir, you have to stop!  You have to stop!  You both have a high probability of hurting each other and–”

 _It’s too fucking late for that.  Damage is done._   “Shut up!” he roared.  He punched at Steve, kicked at Steve, and Steve darted out of the way.  They settled into the fight, into this sheer insanity.  It was fast-paced and brutal, quick jabs and punches, and Tony knew right away Steve wasn’t trying to hurt him.  Steve was on the defensive, shield constantly between him and Iron Man, backing up and retreating as much as possible.  That only stoked the fires of Tony’s rage (fires?  It was a fucking blast furnace at this point!), and he hit harder and harder, ramming his metal fists into that goddamn shield until it rattled and until his fingers ached even with the suit protecting them.  It was pathetic, but he angled them around so that he was in between Steve and the elevator, so that there was no place for Steve to go.  Driving Steve away from escape.  Steve didn’t seem to realize that running away was impossible.  It was too late for that now.  They had to see this through.  And if it killed them both, killed and buried everything between them…

_How did we get here?  How the hell did we get here?_

_How did it come to this?_

Tony sobbed behind the facemask and threw his fist toward Steve’s exposed side.  Steve was too slow getting his shield there, which seemed passing strange, and his blow went right into his ribs.  Steve grunted and lost his balance, his stance broken, and Tony pressed harder, hitting again with more force, knocking him back.  He was relentless, punch after punch, shoving a knee into Steve’s chest and kicking him away.  Steve crashed the dented wall and smashed right through it.  He landed hard in the living room behind it, flat on his back and gasping.  Gritting his teeth, Tony jetted after him, flying through the wall with a blast and a spray of drywall dust and debris.  He howled, driving downward with a violent punch.  Steve rolled at the last second, and Iron Man’s fist smashed the floor instead.  “Sir!” JARVIS yelled.  Tony gasped, horrified that he’d hit the floor (would have hit Steve) with that much power, but Steve was up on his feet anew and whacking him with his shield right across the face.  He was reeling.  “Captain Rogers is not engaging you!  You will seriously harm him!  You–”

_“Shut up!”_

JARVIS went silent.  Perhaps there was simply nothing left for him to say.  Tony was pretty sure he wouldn’t give a damn even if the AI kept nattering at him, even if he started screaming at him.  The HUD was flashing frantically with Steve’s fight patterns, Steve’s vitals even more so.  Those were front and center, and that was probably purposeful.  The main repulsor cannon in Iron Man’s chestplate and some of the more damaging weapons were reading as power deficient or entirely offline.  It had to be JARVIS’ doing.  Tony was so overwrought with emotion that he could hardly care that the AI was now treating him like a baby, that he was trying to go behind his back to prevent him from making a mistake.  Steve didn’t have anything on him other than the shield, no weapons and no protection from his own combat suit, so if Tony unleashed Iron Man’s arsenal on him, this fight would be over with Steve dead.

But he didn’t need to.  JARVIS was right.  Steve wasn’t _fucking trying._   That was becoming completely undeniable.  Iron Man had far more firepower when it came down to it, but in a hand to hand combat situation?  The advantage clearly went to Captain America, whose strength, agility, and skill in martial arts was fairly well unmatched.  However, Steve wasn’t levying any of that against him now.  He sidestepped Tony’s next punch, and the HUD blared with a warning that Tony’s right side was vulnerable, but Steve didn’t take the hit.  Instead he backed up, ducking beneath a swipe of Tony’s metal-bound arm, and vaulted over the back of the couch.  Tony screamed in rage.  “You fucking coward!  _Liar!_ ”  He raised his hand and fired the palm repulsor cannon.  The blue bolt fizzled against Steve’s shield, but the impact jarred him enough that Tony was able to tackle him.  They fell into the sofa where they’d sat just the night before and laughed over _The Big Lebowski_ with beer and popcorn and Steve’s head in Tony’s lap and Tony’s fingers light in Steve’s hair.  The furniture cracked under the weight of Tony slamming Steve down, expensive upholstery tearing and batting flying everywhere.  Steve cried out, eyes squeezed shut in pain, but Tony didn’t let up.  “You’re too good for me, huh?  Too good to fight me?”

“Get off,” Steve hissed.  He struggled to get his shield between them, struggling to push up.  Tony snatched his wrist again, drove a leg between his to get the weight of the suit even firmer on Steve’s struggling body, pinned him in the wreckage.  Everything blurred together in his mind.  Laying here just last night, _just like this,_ pinning Steve underneath him, kissing hot and heavy, hips pressed to hips and legs slotted against one another, Steve’s hands playfully clasped in his own and held above his head, their fingers woven tightly together…  “Get the hell off me, Tony!”

Tony screamed in agony as it all fell apart.  “Not until you hit back!”  Steve’s heart was absolutely racing, his pulse and blood pressure through the roof, and the HUD was filled with warnings about how hard he was squeezing his wrist.  “Not until you fucking admit what you did!  You’re such a goddamn martyr.  So forgiving,” he spat.  “So fucking perfect!  Have to be the perfect friend, the perfect hero!  _Why?_   Why do you have to be this way?”  Tears blurred his vision, and his voice sounded a weird mixture of overly emotional and coldly mechanical.  “Why do you have to sacrifice yourself for him?” _Would you sacrifice yourself for me?_   He couldn’t make himself ask that.  The words got caught in his throat, and the world burned and blurred from the fire inside and the tears in his eyes.  “What does he have that I–”

Steve gave a ragged, frustrated cry and finally wedged his knee between them.  He kicked up with all his strength, denting Iron Man’s midsection as he flung Tony head over heels and off him.  Tony felt Steve’s wrist twist, imagined he could feel the bones bend, and it was so grotesque and heinous that his throat burned with bile that had nothing to do with the dizziness assailing him.  He hit the floor hard on his back, letting go automatically.  Tony flailed and yelped when the shield smashed across his face.  Once.  Twice.  _Harder._   Pain exploded along his cheek, and the HUD flashed with new warnings.  Damage to the suit.  He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry.

He did both.  And he grabbed Steve’s heel as he tried to scramble away.  “No!  _No!_ ”  Tony was back on his feet in an instant, punching, kicking, and Steve didn’t block any of it.  He tripped, lost his footing in an almost sloppy show of clumsiness, and nearly went down.  Nearly.  He yanked away and fled still.  In fear.  In desperation.  Rage burst through Tony, and he rounded on Steve, hit harder and harder, driving him back into the other couch which was kicked over and away. 

Rapidly the room was being reduced to rubble as Tony lost the last vestiges of his control.  Steve got his shield up between them to block a barrage of repulsor blasts, but the deflected energy was burning the ceiling and the walls and destroying everything in its path.  Aggravated, Tony charged Steve again, forcing him up against the glass coffee table.  The _clang clang clang_ of each blow against the vibranium was thunderous, a horrific beat that matched the pace of his shuddering heart, and he sobbed louder with each strike.  Steve staggered, fell.  There was no escape, nowhere to go, and he wasn’t even attempting to run anymore.  Tony rained down punch after punch from above.  “Fucking fight back!  Come on!  Hit me!  _Fight back!”_

Steve cried out, letting the strikes land, letting Tony hurt him.  He was down on one knee, shield up above his head.  His face was bruised, red, bloodied, and Tony could see on the HUD that he was hurt.  That he’d _hurt_ him.  “Stop,” Steve begged.  “ _Stop!_   I’m not gonna fight you!”

 _“Hit me back!”_   Tony twisted, knocking the shield away.  Steve looked up at him, eyes wet and horrified and _waiting._   Waiting for Tony to hurt him.  _He’s punishing himself.  It’s what he thinks he deserves._ Pain and pleasure, indistinct and interchangeable.  It was reckless and senseless and careless.  Steve was _letting_ Tony hurt him.  Kneeling like a goddamn sacrifice and allowing Tony to vent his wrath, to visit upon him the violent penance for what Barnes had done.  Protecting Barnes while offering his body up for what Tony needed.  It was so screwed up, so _wrong_ on a very fundamental level…  Tony heaved a sob.  He couldn’t do this, but he couldn’t stop.  All the hell from the last six months, the pain and anger, the frustration and endless days filled with worry and nights filled with fear…  It was all exploding out of him, and _he couldn’t stop._  “Jesus Christ…  God, please, hit me back!”

Steve shook his head.  “I can’t,” he moaned.  “I can’t!”

Rage blinded him.  It always did.  Pepper kept telling him he was impulsive, that he let his emotions get the better of him, that he didn’t think.  It was true.  The next thing he knew the suit’s sensors were registering the impact of his hand to Steve’s face.  It was a vicious, cruel, backhanded blow than sent him flying like a rag doll.  Steve hit the coffee table, and it shattered beneath him with a deafening bang.

It was quiet.  Steve slumped down into the sea of glass, breathing shallowly.  Tony blinked in surprise, lowering his hand.  For a second, he was afraid he’d really hurt him.  _Really hurt him_.  Steve was groaning, shifting uncomfortably, _not getting up,_ and Tony frantically scanned the HUD.  “JARVIS…”  JARVIS didn’t answer, did nothing aside from bringing Steve’s vitals to the forefront of the HUD.  Steve seemed alright.  Still, he didn’t move much, didn’t try to stand, didn’t do anything but lay there and shake and breathe and bleed.  Tony lost his patience, too terrified to stay quiet and still.  “Get up,” he demanded hoarsely, frustration and fear making him dizzy and desperate.  Steve groaned again.  _“Get up!”_

The glass rattled as Steve finally rolled to his side.  He pushed his feet beneath him, crunching the shards under his shoes, and stood.  His hair twinkled in the lights, and his eyes hardened as he lifted his shield again to protect his torso.

Tony saw red.  Red smeared on Steve’s chin.  Red in his hair.  Red on his t-shirt.  And he hated him and hated himself even more, hated Steve for lying and coming to him like he always did and being so noble and important and so damn _right,_ hated himself for being so fucking weak and spiteful and selfish.  He didn’t want Steve to go.  He wasn’t going to let him go.  But he couldn’t bring himself to do anything other than _hate._   “Gotta keep throwing yourself on the wire, huh,” he sneered.  He glared at Steve from behind the faceplate, glared and tried to breathe through his fury.  “Feels good, right?  Letting someone kick the shit out of you for your mistakes.”

“Tony, stop,” Steve breathed.  “Please stop.”

“Sir, end this now.  There’s no sense–”

Tears wet Tony’s lips.  “Probably better than constantly being left behind, you know, waiting until someone wants you.  Waiting for someone to come back.”  His voice shook, and he knew this was pointless and torturous, but the words were just spilling from his mouth.  “Better than being used.”

JARVIS was nattering.  “Stop.  This will only end in disaster.”

Steve’s face crumpled.  “Please don’t–”

“My father gave up my childhood for you!  My whole life I’ve been dropped for _you._   Now you’re dropping me for _him._ ”

“Sir, this is madness!  It will not change what happened!”

“Jesus, Tony, please–”

“So this is it, Rogers.  You fucking own up to it.  You fucking _own_ it.”

“No, Tony.  No!”

“How could you do this?  _How could you do this to us?”_

“Tony–”

Tony raised his hands and powered the palm repulsors to full.  JARVIS couldn’t stop him.  Steve took a step back.  “Fight,” Tony taunted.  “Come on.  Fight!  This is what we are, right?  Avengers.  Captain America and Iron Man.  You and me, two fucked up bastards who destroy everything we touch.  So fight me.  That’s what you do, isn’t it, so do it!”  There was a minute shake of Steve’s head.  “ _Come on!  Fight me!_ ”

A moment slipped away.  Another.  And another.  Steve didn’t move, didn’t so much as twitch, and his eyes were shining in the shadows.  Tony sucked in breath after breath in the silence, unable to stand it.  The weight of his shame was crushing him.  Steve wasn’t going to do it.  Steve wasn’t going to come at him, to hit him, to hurt him.  Steve was _better_ than that.  And the rage blinded him.  “Fine.  Then throw your shield down just like you did for him.  Let me break you just like he did.”

Something in Steve’s eyes finally just snapped and he _moved._   He moved fast, as fast as Tony had ever seen.  He was across the few feet that separated him, and that shining star, pure and perfect, was slamming into Tony’s face plate.  All of Steve’s strength was behind the attack now, _all of it_ , and Tony staggered.  A flurry of blows followed, quick, unstoppable, and powerful.  The HUD immediately registered the damage, injuries to his chest and shoulders.  JARVIS was yelling, his voice shrill and panicked.  “Armor integrity at less than 50%!  You must fight back!  You must–”

Tony couldn’t.  He tried to mount a defense, but the whole thing took him so by surprise that he couldn’t.  And Steve was too quick and too powerful, deep in an attack Tony couldn’t hope to stop.  He swept out Iron Man’s legs, and Tony went down.  Now he was the one flat on his back, and Steve was right there over him, face twisted in anger, eyes so brightly blue they were almost blinding.  Tony was pinned, helpless, crushed under Captain America’s weight and the strength of his legs around his middle.

And Steve was hitting him.  The shield slammed down again and again, the sharp edge cutting into Tony’s neck.  The HUD screamed.  JARVIS did, too.  “Sir!  The unibeam!  Repulsor cannons!  Fight back!  Do something!  Let me take control!  _Mr. Stark, you must do something!”_

 _What do I do?  What do I do?  He’s going to kill me!_   Tony couldn’t process that.  He couldn’t accept it, couldn’t believe it.  Couldn’t do anything.  Again the shield struck, and Tony could feel the metal of the armor give.  Fear pumped through him, icy cold and horrendous, and he wordlessly yelled.  _What do I do?  What do I do?_

_What have I done?_

_“Sir!”_

The shield’s edge severed Iron Man’s helmet from where it was sealed to the rest of the suit, and Steve yanked it off.  It clattered into the wreckage beside them.  Tony gulped a breath, absolutely _terrified_ , bringing his hands up to protect his face.  This was it.  _His_ punishment for turning on the only good thing in his life, for hurting the only person who meant anything to him.  The shield came down again.

But it was never aimed for his exposed face or vulnerable neck.  No, its edge slammed into the arc reactor in the center of Iron Man’s chest, cutting through glass and metal and machinery.  The suit’s power immediately failed, and with a soft whine, Iron Man went limp and useless around him.

Steve was panting above him, wincing, leaning heavily into his shield.  His hair was sweat-soaked and laden with glass and dust.  His face was pale underneath the blood around his mouth and bruises on his cheeks.  He looked…  _God._   He barely caught his breath, barely focused on Tony’s face, barely pulled his shield up and out of Iron Man’s chest with a clank and a grunt.  He swallowed.  “No, I won’t.  I won’t fight you.  You hear me?  _I can’t._ ”

Tony gave a tiny shake of his head, shocked beyond thought.  His body throbbed with adrenaline, with residual anger, with the horrific rush of fading fear.  He felt sick and high and lost all at the same time.  Steve shuddered.  He dropped the shield again, threw it away and collapsed on Tony’s chest.  He shivered, digging his bloody fingers into the unforgiving plates of Tony’s armor.  “I can’t,” he whispered, “because I love you.”

It was quiet.  Something sparked and hissed.  Something else fizzled.  Alarms were quietly beeping somewhere.  Tony’s heart was pounding, even as burdened and damaged as it was from the life he’d lived and the hell he’d suffered.  As the adrenaline faded, though, and the terror and panic with it, the quick, desperate beat of blood in his veins and life in his body switched to something else.  Something warm for the first time in what felt like forever.  Something right and pure.  Something good.

_Steve loves me._

Tony closed his eyes, swallowing down the knot in his throat, and raised his hands to tentatively and carefully weave them through Steve’s hair.  Steve shivered with the touch, tucking his head tighter under Tony’s chin.  Tony knew his eyes were closed too, even though he couldn’t see it.  “I love you,” Steve murmured again, this time a little louder.  A little stronger.  “I can’t…  You don’t know…  I–”

The words didn’t matter now.  Whatever Steve was going to say didn’t matter.  He was there – _here_ – right where he belonged, and everything was different.  Just like that, the rage faded, the pain vanished, the grief and misery and doubt abated, and…

_He loves me._

Tony moved.  The hunger inside him shifted like a blast of hot wind blowing wildly across a desert, and he grasped Steve’s jaw and lifted his face and pulled him into a fierce kiss.  Steve’s mouth was hot and desperate on his, and he tasted like blood and tears.  Tony didn’t care.  He prodded Steve’s lips open and devoured, shaken to his core and needing the contact.  Needing this.  How close they’d come to losing everything.  To becoming the very monster he decried Barnes for being, only Barnes hadn’t had a choice.  Tony’s goddamn emotions…  He sobbed before he could stop himself, grabbing Steve’s hair.  Steve’s large hands were grabbing at him, too, pulling him close one breath yet pushing him away the next like he was afraid and unsure of what he wanted or needed.  Tony was sure.  He tightened his grip on Steve’s hair, dragging his face closer, keeping it there.  The kiss was savage, fierce and brutal, more teeth and tongue than lips.  An affirmation.

Somehow they made it off the floor, mouths locked together, hands frantically grasping at each other.  The shield was forgotten in the debris, the debris itself ignored.  Steve was ripping at Iron Man, fingers curling into the plating and pulling, and Tony was fumbling with manual releases for the suit.   As they staggered through the wreckage in the general direction of the bedroom, it fell away a piece at a time.  Boots and vambraces.  Chestplate and pauldrons.  Gauntlets.  Greaves.  Steve pried at them when they wouldn’t come off fast enough, kissing messily, limping and pushing and tugging.  They were halfway down the hallway when the fire in Tony’s blood overtook everything else, when he pushed Steve to the wall.  He yanked Steve’s jacket off, attacking his neck with his teeth and lips, and Steve groaned, shivering and struggling to get his arms free.  Tony held him there, even though Steve was too strong to be held, held him and ravished with his eyes shut and his heart aching.  _Mine._   He sucked at Steve’s pulse point, rucked up his shirt to feel the muscles of his stomach flutter and the hard lines of his chest, felt the frantic, violent flutter of his heart.  _Can’t let you go._   His hands trembled as he swept them lower to grab for the button of Steve’s jeans.  _Never again._   Steve groaned, tipping his head back, and Tony kissed down his throat and fumbled to get his pants open.

_Never leave me again._

“No,” Steve gasped as Tony finally got his jeans undone.  “No!”  Tony staggered as though he’d been struck again, the pain of denial or, worse, rejection stabbing into him like a knife.  He deserved it, after what he’d just done, nearly killing Steve and given he was now trying to erase violence with sex.  That was how fucked up he was, and he didn’t deserve anything but abhorrence.

But it wasn’t that.  Steve’s eyes met his but a moment, and they were burning with equal parts desire and desperation.  Suddenly Tony was being driven back across the hallway, and Steve was pinning him there, digging a knee between his legs and attacking his mouth.  He’d never kissed like this before, not with this much unbridled and wanton passion behind it.  It was wet and deep and almost harsh, bruising in intensity, and Tony let himself fall into it.  He was so swept up in that, in Steve’s strength and Steve’s hunger and Steve’s heat, that he didn’t notice for a second when it was gone.

He pried his eyes open to see that Steve had dropped to his knees in front of him.  “Oh, fuck,” he groaned.  Long fingers clumsily grasped his sweatpants and pulled them down.  It was happening so fast, and the hallway spun, heavy shadows and golden light and so much _heat_ when Steve yanked his boxers out of the way and got his mouth on him.  They hadn’t done this much, not like this.  Steve had never quite seemed comfortable about it, not with Tony doing it to him and not with him doing it to Tony.  He didn’t know how, uncertain and nervous about screwing it up, and Tony had never once pressured him.  Now he was deep into it, hands like iron on Tony’s hips, shoving him into the wall to hold him still as he kissed and sucked and teased and tormented.  He had no idea what he was doing.  That was ridiculously obvious.  In terms of blow jobs, this was terrible.

Tony didn’t care.  He didn’t care _at all_.  He’d never been so turned on in his life, never wanted anything so bad as this, and it felt so good, _so good,_ because Steve was there and Steve was doing this for him and Steve was giving him this and Steve had told him he loved him.

And there were fleeting thoughts in his head.  Of course there were because there always were.  A storm of stupid, useless, fleeting thoughts.  Shameful regrets.  Awful doubts.  Fears that Steve was only doing this because he felt his owed Tony or needed to make up for what had happened.  _Mindless sex.  Senseless, filthy, crazy, wrong…  No._   Steve wouldn’t.  Not ever.  If Steve gave, he gave with all his heart, with both arms open.

Both those arms were holding him still and reminding him it wasn’t his place to be in control now.  Tony tipped his head back with a thud, staring at the ceiling because he couldn’t stand to watch Steve.  It was too sinfully hot, too powerful, too disturbing, in a sense, because it brought all the awful fear and misery to the forefront.  Steve’s bruised lips around him and Steve’s bloodied knuckles red against the pale skin of Tony’s hips and Steve’s eyes squeezed shut but not enough to stop the tears.  Somehow Tony had the mind to stop this.  He had to stop it.  “Steve.  Steve!  You don’t – you don’t need to…  God, please…”

Steve didn’t stop.  He didn’t even slow down.  He got bolder, more insistent, taking Tony deeper, kissing and sucking and Tony couldn’t help but grab his hair again and try to pull him off because this was too much and not enough and he could feel the pleasure spiking at the base of his spine and he couldn’t – _didn’t want to_ – stop it.  It was going to be over embarrassingly quick – _soon_ – and he couldn’t let Steve do this.  He couldn’t let him–  “Steve, you gotta stop…  Stop!  I’m…”  Tony squeezed his eyes shut, pulling harder at Steve’s hair and giving a half aborted thrust of his hips.  Steve groaned around him.  That was all it took.  White exploded behind his eyelids, beautiful and blinding, and Tony let go.

Steve didn’t let him go, though.  The world shattered, it seemed, and Tony cried out, and Steve guided him through it, gentle now and tender but no less insistent.  And when it was over and Tony could breathe again, he looked down on Steve through half-lidded eyes, Steve who was slowly rising like he couldn’t find his balance and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  Steve who was equal parts shocked at what he’d done and pleased that he’d done it and hurt still that it had happened like this.  Tony couldn’t stand the look in his eyes, so he fisted his shirt and dragged him in for a kiss that was demanding and raw.

It seemed to take forever, a forever of pained steps and frenzied kisses and gasps and groans, but they finally made it to the bedroom.  Clothes were shed along the way.  It was just as well that the lights were low and everything was dark and dim because it was too hard to look.  Too hard to see the welts Tony knew were all over Steve’s chest, the bruises _he’d_ put there in his fit of rage.  He made himself do it, though.  Made himself examine what he’d done, see the choices he’d made.  He pulled Steve to the bed, knocking off the file on his parents’ deaths and his phone, and trapped him between his legs.  He saw it all, the damage he’d wrought.  The injuries would heal, of course.  Everything would heal, but God if he didn’t hate himself now more than ever for being so stupid and selfish.  Steve winced but never once pushed him away.  Never once complained.  He was silent save for rushed, hitched breaths and soft groans.  His eyes were closed now, and he trembled as Tony ran his hands over every place he’d hit, every wound he’d caused.  How could he have done this?  All the times he’d seen Steve suffer, seen Steve hurt and beaten and broken and vowed that that time would be the last time…

Tony choked on a sob and kissed Steve’s chest, as worshipful and reverent as Steve was when he worked his pencil over paper in any one of his sketches of Tony.  Tony was light at first, careful, tears wetting his cheeks, wetting Steve’s skin like he could wash away the damage.  But then he worked his way lower, down the flat of Steve’s belly, holding Steve’s hip, hungrier and more possessive and eager to claim.  To repair.  To make this right.  Steve grabbed his hair and held on, grunting and then moaning, throwing his head back as Tony touched him and teased him without mercy.

Once Steve was practically at a fever pitch, Tony looked up.  “Do you want me?” he asked, his voice a husky rasp.  “Do you want me?”

Steve choked on his breath, shivering.  “Yes!”

“Then have me.”  Steve whimpered, frantically trying to get on the bed and offer up himself.  Tony pushed him back.  “No.  Take me.”  He cupped Steve’s face and wiped the blood away before he kissed hard, delving in with his tongue, demanding and then giving, dominating and then submitting.  He pulled back and stared into Steve’s eyes.  “If you want me, then take me.”

 _Choose me._   _Fix me.  Make me yours._

Steve nodded.  He looked scared, panicked, as skittish as a racehorse and so young and needy and lost.  Tony scrambled for the tube of lube in the bedside drawer, scrambled to work himself open, scrambled to do this before Steve lost his nerve or left or turned away in revulsion or anything.  Steve’s eyes were huge in the darkness, still so wide and wet but teeming with desire.  He watched as Tony got himself ready, shivering through short, shallow breaths, trembling in arousal.  Tony rushed it; it had been a long time since he’d done this last, but he had no patience.  He couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand the thought of losing Steve, of Steve being afraid of this, of Steve not wanting everything he could give…

But Steve wanted it.  When he guided Steve forward and Steve slid slowly inside him, he felt overwhelmingly big, and it burned.  Hurt.  The ache was deep and so good.  It felt like too much, and Tony had to catch his breath.  Steve did, too, face screwed up in effort, in pleasure he’d never experienced before.  Then Steve moved, timid for just a second or two before surrendering, submitting.  He lost his control, lost his restraint, lost himself in a way Tony had never imagined.  He drove fast, deep, bracketing Tony with his fists, hands around his head and hips rocking.  Tony held on.   It was hard, rough, perfect, as quick and bright as lightning.

And when Steve let go, he did it with a hoarse cry like it _hurt_ , like something had been ripped apart inside him.  Like pain and pleasure were yet again indistinct and interchangeable.  He arched his back, mouth open, face locked in a grimace, body stiff and bathed in sweat.  Beneath him, Tony watched as he always did, watched and lost himself in what Steve was feeling.  It was amazing, sacred and incredible and so, so _beautiful_.

Steve collapsed on him again.  Now it was skin to skin, heart to heart, and Tony could feel Steve’s heart pounding through his ribs and Steve’s lungs seizing and straining.  Steve was still stiff and unyielding.  Suddenly he heaved a great, long, loud sob.  Tony jerked in surprise, but another wailing cry came on top of the first.  And another.  _And another._   “I’m so sorry, Tony!” Steve whimpered.  He clenched the sheets in his fists.  “I shouldn’t have come back, shouldn’t have done this to you again, shouldn’t have asked _anything_ of you, but I couldn’t stop myself.  You’re so much stronger and better than I am.  So smart and so good.”  He wanted to argue, but the objection died in his throat.  Steve’s voice broke, a rushed, desperate whisper against Tony’s shoulder where his face was buried.  “You give, and I take and take and I see how it hurts you and I convince myself it’s okay but it’s not.  It’s not okay.  You deserve so much _better_.  So much better!  You take care of me, and I keep breaking you down.  Keep fucking _hurting_ you.”  Tony’s eyes filled with tears, and he stiffened.  “You were right about him, right from the start, and I – I wouldn’t let myself listen.  You were right, and I…”  Steve shuddered.  “I can’t stop taking from you.  You make me feel so good.  You make me feel real, and I don’t deserve it.  Don’t deserve any of it!  I don’t deserve to love you!”

“Jesus, Steve…”  He couldn’t keep the disbelief from bleeding into his faint voice. 

The words came faster and faster, slurred together and marred with Steve’s pain as he finally let it all out.  The infection that had nearly eaten him inside.  The poison.  “You were right.  You were right!  Right about me.  Right about Bucky.  I can’t save him!  I can’t save him, and I can’t do this anymore!  I can’t!  He’s – he’s _broken_ , and I can’t – I don’t know how to fix it.  He’s out there, and I gotta find him because he took care of me.  He took care of me and it’s my fault this happened ’cause I couldn’t catch him when he fell and–”

Tony swept his hands up Steve’s slick, trembling back.  It felt like he was shaking apart, like it was all pouring out now, his defenses down and his heart open.  Bleeding and broken.  And suddenly…  Suddenly Tony understood something.  What Sam had meant about Steve needing him to save him.  What Clint had meant about protecting what made you whole and happy.  What Natasha had said about Steve protecting him.  For weeks, _months,_ Steve had suffered with nothing but guilt, guilt for what had happened to Barnes, for what Barnes had done.  And he was here now as he had been every time before this, looking for healing.  For distraction.  For sex, yes, and for comfort.  For absolution.  For _release_.  For Tony to bear this burden _with_ him.  For Tony to make this better.

So he had to make it better.  That was more important than being right, more important than winning the fight.  More important than what Barnes had done to his parents, than what he’d done to all of them, and more important than making Steve see how irreparable the Winter Soldier might be.  This was more important even than making sure Steve came back to him.  It was sacrificing for someone you loved.  It was being there, not just to wrap up cuts and kiss away miseries.  It was offering yourself, heart and soul, to spare someone else one more second of pain.  Devotion.  Loyalty.  _Love._

It was about the choice to do the right thing even if it hurt, and he had to make it now.  “It’s not your fault.”

Steve shook his head desperately.  “It is.  You don’t know how much it is!”

“No.”

“I know you’re right, and I’m a goddamn liar and a fucking bastard for not believing you, but even now – even now I know I gotta bring him back.  I can’t leave him like this!  Don’t you see?  He took care of me!  He protected me.  When I was sick, when ma died, when we were so damn poor and there was no food and no heat and no work and nothing good…  When I had _nothing_ , I always had him.  He always took care of me, Tony, and they _ruined_ him and there’s no way to–”

“There is,” Tony whispered, kissing Steve’s hair.  “I know there is.”

Steve wailed another sob, muffled by Tony’s skin and the blankets.  “He killed your parents!”

“I know, baby.”

“I can’t let it go.  I can’t!  Every day out there I hated him and hated myself.  Couldn’t tell anyone.  Was so afraid they’d hate him too.  And I kept looking.  Kept hoping I’d find something else, something that’d make it not true.  Something that said it wasn’t true!  Kept looking so hard, but there wasn’t anything.  Nothing.  Because it’s true.  It’s goddamn true.  I knew it the whole time but I couldn’t let it go, Tony.  Couldn’t.  And I wanted – it hurt, but it felt good to fight, and I…  I wanted to come home to you so much…  I wanted–”

“You’re here now.  I’ve got you.”

“I was so scared.  So afraid you’d hate him.  _Hate me_ as much as I hate myself for what he did.  It’s so fucked up, Tony.  So fucked up.  And I can’t – there’d be nothing left!  I love you so much.”  Tony closed his eyes, shivering himself.  “I love you, and if I lost you…  There’d be nothing left.  I can’t – but I can’t let him go either.  I can’t.  I tried.  I can’t!  I – I need you to help me.  I don’t know what to do.  I need you to help me.  Please help me.  _Please, please._   I can’t stop, Tony!  Please!  I can’t let it go!  It killed me out there!  Kills me now!  He’s – he’s a monster, Tony!  I don’t know how to fix that!”

Tony tightened his grip on Steve, trapping him between his legs, arm around his back as he cried.  “Shh,” he hushed.  “Shh, it’s alright.  It’s gonna be alright, Steve.  It will be.  We’ll make it be alright.  We’ll make it work.  We’ll figure it out.  Whatever it ends up being, whatever it takes…”  He took a deep breath and knew the answer.  “We’ll do it together.”

“I’m so sorry, Tony,” Steve whispered between his sobs.  His fingers furled and unfurled in the sheets almost spastically, and he quivered like his next breath might end him and he needed to repent.  “I’m so sorry.  I’m sorry!”  He kept saying it over and over again, breaking apart with the chant, weeping and throwing himself at Tony’s feet to beg for forgiveness.  “I’m sorry…  I’m sorry…”

Tony shook his head, weaving his fingers through Steve’s hair at the back of his head to cradle him closer.  “I know,” he murmured into Steve’s forehead, kissing there gently.  “I know you are.  I am, too.  I’m so sorry.  And, God, Steve…  You deserve to love me.  You have no idea how much you deserve it!  I…  I…”  For all the time he’d spent denying it, for all the long nights he’d tried to convince himself otherwise…  For all the fear he’d had and the doubt that what he felt wouldn’t be returned.  For his unwillingness to commit, to be exposed, to open himself only to be abandoned and hurt again…

For all that, the words came very easy.  “I love you, too.” 

It was quiet again.  The storm was behind them, hearts beating like distant rumbles of tired thunder, breaths slow like the weary wind, tears falling gently in a lingering rain.  Tony let Steve cry, let him get _everything_ out, everything he’d been holding inside for so long.  Eventually Steve went limp and soft and pliant.  Spent.  Tony squirmed gently, and Steve pushed himself up and out of him.  Despite the mess, Tony gathered him in his embrace and kissed his swollen lips gently, kissed away the last of his tears.  Steve sniffled, eyes swollen and half-lidded, and tenderly kissed him back.  Tony pulled away, feeling stronger and more sure of himself than he had in a very long time.  “It’s alright,” he assured again, cupping Steve’s jaw and holding his eyes.  “It is.”

Once Steve gave a weary nod, Tony got up, slowly and carefully.  He limped quickly to the bathroom, kicking the file away and picking up his phone, glancing over his shoulder once to make sure Steve was okay.  Steve was only sinking into the bed, curling onto his side.  Once inside the bathroom, Tony quickly gathered up a damp wash cloth and bandages from the first aid kit still there.  He cleaned himself up in record time, sore and raw but finding it all not so bad.  Then he came back.

Steve was still there, still laying and shivering and breathing.  Tony was gentle, soft words and light fingers, as he sat beside him and cleaned up him, too.  Then he saw to the worst of the wounds, wiping away the remaining blood, tenderly pressing around the bruises to see how serious the damage actually was.  His throat knotted with shame as he did, as he saw the bands of bruising around Steve’s wrist where Iron Man’s fingers had grabbed and squeezed so hard, but…  It wasn’t so bad.  The welts weren’t serious, at least nothing beyond what the serum could handle in short order.  Nothing that couldn’t be healed.  It was alright.  He was careful and tender as he wrapped up Steve’s sore ribs and took care of anything and everything that looked like it hurt.  Steve shouldn’t hurt anymore.  _Never again._

His phone beeped.  He turned over on the bed to glance at it where he’d put it on the nightstand.  It was another update from his tracking algorithm.  Tony stared at it, empty and aching, until Steve fumbled for his arm to seek his hand.  Tony shook his head, snapping himself from his daze, and reached for the phone.  He was speaking before he even thought to.  “I found him.”

Steve blinked at him hazily.  “Found him?”

Tony closed his eyes.  If he did this…  He knew Steve loved him.  He knew that now more than ever.  But he also knew more than ever that Steve needed to save Barnes, that Barnes was…  Barnes was a victim in all this, as much as his parents were and Steve was and Tony himself was.  This wouldn’t be the end of it.  It couldn’t be.  Bucky was Steve’s brother in every way that counted, his family in every way that really mattered, and Tony couldn’t ever ask Steve to give that up.  Not again.  He _loved_ Steve.

So that was why he, too, had to be strong enough to tell the truth.  “A couple weeks ago, when you came back…  I started writing an algorithm to track Lukin.  And that worked pretty well, so I expanded it to track–”  He almost stopped.  Almost failed.  But he didn’t.  He took the phone and showed it to Steve, Steve who was squinting like he couldn’t understand.  He probably couldn’t.  Tony sighed.  “I figured out how to make it track Bucky.  And I…”  Now it was his turn to confess.  “I didn’t tell you because I was afraid.  I was afraid you’d take it and leave me and that you wouldn’t come back.  I was afraid you’d find him, and everything would change for good and there’d be no place for me in that.  You think I’m strong and brave and good?  I was a fucking coward, Steve, and…  If I’d told you, maybe helped you from the start, none of this would have happened.  You wouldn’t have gotten hurt so bad.  You shouldn’t have had to face this alone.”

“Tony…”

“Take it, Steve.  Go and find him.”  He offered up the phone.  “With this, you can.  You want my help to end it?  Here.”  He nodded despite the lump in his throat and the frightened tears he was trying to hide.  “Take it.”

Steve’s mouth was limp and open as he glanced between the phone and Tony’s face.  He didn’t seem capable of processing any of it, not what it was or what Tony had done or what he was doing now or _why_.  Tony couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand the silence and the flash of what seemed like betrayal in Steve’s reddened eyes or the way his lips pulled into a frown.  “Go on, Steve.  I want you to.  Please.  _Take it._ ”

Steve took the phone.  Gingerly he sat up, thumbing at the screen, and the great heap of data about Barnes that had been put together to form a map and a path appeared.  Tony sat stiffly, watching Steve figure it out, afraid of what Steve would say and think.  “This is…” Steve breathed.

“Yeah.  You can…  You can go now and bring him back.  Go and save him.”

Steve’s expression was oddly unreadable.  For an interminable moment, he stared at the small screen.  Then he shut the phone off and tipped his head back.

And Tony couldn’t stand it.  He swallowed a rough sob, though how there could be any more tears to cry he didn’t know, and crawled into Steve’s lap.  Steve fell back into the pillows again, sliding down, the phone slipping from his fingers.  He wrapped his arms around Tony, and they kissed.  They kissed and kissed.  It was hard and deep, and Tony closed his eyes and tasted Steve and felt Steve’s mouth and hands and body.  He melted into Steve’s strength and took in Steve’s breath and basked in Steve’s presence.  He needed this, a moment to memorize it all, maybe one last time to love and be loved, because this was it.

This was where he let Steve go.

* * *

There was this thing whenever Steve came home.  This fear.  This dread.  It was stronger now, immutable almost, so powerful that Tony stayed down in that place between sleep and wakefulness for as long as he could.  He hid there.  There were horrors from the night before all around him, but they were distant.  There was pleasure there, too, a haze of it that still clung to him and completed him.  But most of all there was the fear.

Tony was terrified he’d wake up and Steve would be gone.

This was the way it always went, after all.  The awful script.  The play by play and scene by scene.  Like a checklist, they’d hit all the points.  Patch Steve up.  Clean him up and feed him and let him rest.  The good days filled with banter and fun and love.  The dark days, where they’d fight and argue and hate and hurt each other.  And then Steve would go.  That was how it always ended.  _Always._

This time wouldn’t be any different.

And Tony knew that.  He couldn’t stay there in that safe place forever, though, where sweet memories keep you happy and all the bad stuff was far, far away.  You always had to wake up, to face the day, face the music, as his dad said once or twice.  _Reap what you sow._   It would be alright, whatever it was, because he’d done the right thing.  He’d always wondered how Steve sustained himself so well on that, let himself be hurt and denied, let himself sacrifice _just_ on the knowledge that what he was doing was for the best.  Well, Tony could appreciate that now.  It felt good in a different way.  Better than inventing or drinking or partying.  Better than thrill-seeking.  Better than sex, even.  This was pride and strength and self-confidence and self-worth.  It was a hollow sort of satisfaction because it didn’t come without consequences.  Still, those consequences were meaningful.  _Good_ consequences.  A good pain, knowing you’d done the best you could for someone you loved.  Like breaking up with Pepper.  Like inventing things to protect the world.  Like fixing something.  Like making it better.  Like this.

The other thing was, though, knowing that didn’t make it hurt less.  It wouldn’t make the shame of what they’d done, of how they’d fought, simply disappear.  And it wouldn’t make the heartache vanish, either.  This would hurt.  It would hurt a good long time.  Knowing what he knew now, about Steve and Barnes and what had happened to his parents.  And he wasn’t as good a man as Steve was.  Not by a long shot and no matter what Steve thought.  He wasn’t as strong or as brave.  So staying down in that place where nothing could touch him…  Well, it was all he could manage.

For a while at least.

But he woke up eventually.  And he did to a silent, darkened bedroom.  It wasn’t quite dawn, and everything seemed gray and ghostly and not quite real.  Tony stretched, aching fiercely, and took a deep breath.  He blinked the cobwebs of sleep from his eyes, wincing against a headache, and rolled over.

The bed was empty.  Steve’s side was cold.

_Steve was gone._

Tony closed his eyes and sank.  This was okay.  It was for the best, what was supposed to happen.  And it would be alright.  He tried to hang onto that hope as the pain threatened.  He tried to have faith, just a shred of the faith Steve always seemed to have.  It’d be alright.  He could wait.  He could go back to that.  Waiting and worrying and missing Steve.  Longing for him.  Steve would be okay now, and he’d find Barnes, and he’d come back.  Wouldn’t he?  He loved Tony, and Tony loved him, so he’d come back and everything would be–

“Tony?”

He opened his eyes again pretty damn quick and sat up with a jolt.

Steve stood in the bathroom doorway, naked and drying himself from his shower.  His eyes were bright and blue.  He was still battered and bruised but beautiful.  In the light of this new day, Tony could see he was healing.  The horrors were fading.  In a few hours, they’d be gone.  With time and patience and love, they’d _all_ be gone.

But Steve wasn’t gone.  Steve hadn’t run, hadn’t left, hadn’t abandoned him.  _Steve was here._

Tony gasped a soft sob, smiling like a fool, and flopped back down into bed because his limbs had turned to useless rubber.  He was shaking all over again.  “Oh, God…”

“Tony?  Are you okay?”  Steve let the towel drop – those stupid, goddamn, expensive imported towels he liked – and set it on the dresser where he’d folded up his stuff and seemed to be in the process of putting it all away.  Tony just stared, struck into a stupor, as Steve walked back to their bed.  He climbed in on his side, smoothing the rumpled sheets as he covered them both.  He was warm and smelled of soap and cleanliness, as he pulled Tony closer.  Tony let himself be pulled.  “Tony…”

“I’m fine,” he gasped.  “Yeah.  Fine.  No, it’s good.  It’s all good.”  He was weeping.  Babbling.  Grinning.  He couldn’t help himself.  He was high and giddy and so very _relieved._ “It’s fine now.  It’s fine.  It’s fine.”

Steve nodded and kissed him slowly.  “Go back to sleep,” he said.  “I’ve got you.”

Steve did have him.  His arms were strong around him, his chest hard and firm against his, his legs trapping him close, his hands huge as they swept up and down Tony’s back.  Tony closed his eyes and buried his face into the warmth of Steve’s neck.  He breathed deeply, breathed of Steve’s life and light, and let himself go.  _It’s alright now.  It’s going to be fine._

_Whatever it takes, we’ll do it together._

 

 _“When the truth is…  I miss you._  
_Yeah, the truth is…  I miss you so._  
_And I’m tired…  I should not have let you go._  
_So I crawl back into your open arms…”_  
– Coldplay, “Warning Sign”

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was my first foray into Stony, and I have to say... I really liked it :-). I had actually planned this story to take this route, with Steve hiding Bucky's involvement in Tony's parents' murders from Tony and Tony snooping in his backpack and it leading to the epic showdown, months before I saw CW. So... this is kinda like the end of CW only with more smut and happier Stony? I was able to play off the movie a lot these last few chapters, which I think is a double-edged sword in some respects. I really tried to show them as equals in this, equally at fault and equally in the right, so I hope it worked. I know quite a few people wanted a less happier ending, but since I plotted this one out way before seeing the movie, I wanted to stick to my original plan.
> 
> At any rate, extra huge thanks to [Winterstar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/pseuds/Winterstar), who aided me tremendously with this story in everything from beta-reading to helping me straighten out some plot points and scenes to letting me vent my feels after the movie. She's truly a gift to the pairing, so read her works if you haven't! Also, thanks so much to everyone who read and left a comment or kudos! I'm eternally grateful to you for taking the time.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://thegraytigress.tumblr.com)!


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